


true friends you'll find

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Bisexuality, Coming Out, First Dates, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Multi, Mutual Pining, Sirius Black Lives, Slytherin Harry, Triwizard Tournament, Yule Ball, huzzah, wolfstar, yay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6799891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Playing chess with Malfoy is mentally exhausting,” Harry protests. He wraps his arms around the pillow and rolls over, hugging it with his back to Blaise, who tuts as though Harry is a particularly unruly toddler.</p><p>"Potter, <em>breathing</em> is mentally exhausting for you,” Draco drawls, from across the room.</p><p>(Or Harry is sorted into Slytherin, and six years later, someone wants to kill him. Again.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Triwizard Tournament

**Author's Note:**

> Things to note: I tend to only write this when I'm tired so it might be completely shit. There's swearing, but that's it, only canon-typical levels of everyyyything. Blaise and Harry are best friends, as per my own personal favourite headcannon, and after the first part of the fic, it jumps to their sixth year. 
> 
> Things are explained, but nevertheless; everything happened pretty much the same only with Harry in Slytherin and all of his friends being involved. Nothing happens in their fourth and fifth year; no Umbridge, no Triwizard tournament, no order of the phoenix or Sirius dying, because Voldemort is not alive. I know it's their sixth year, but none of the stuff with Draco happens either, because Voldemort isn't alive, so Dumbledore doesn't die either. 
> 
> I hope you like it! Thanks so much for reading :)

_Not Slytherin, ey? You could be great, you know, and Slytherin would help you on your way to greatness. There’s no doubt about that, no?_

Harry fidgets on the stool. He’s grateful that the Sorting Hat is so big, because it slips down over his eyes and obscures his view of the Great Hall, blocks out the sea of people watching him with bated breath. Nobody’s whispering anymore, they’re all just waiting, watching.

 _I don’t want to be great_ , Harry thinks, because he doesn’t. He’s never really wanted fame or fortune. He’s never wanted to be in the spotlight. At school, he didn’t want to be the popular kid – he just wanted someone to talk to on the playground, someone to hide from Dudley with. What he _wants_ is people that he can talk to and trust and smile at, like the people he used to see in the playground at school, talking to each other and sharing sweets and making up games. Isn’t that what everyone wants?

 _I don’t want to be great. I want friends_.

_What makes you think you won’t find friends in Slytherin?_

Harry thinks about it. He thinks about Ron, the ginger, freckled boy on the train that had offered to share his meagre stash of sandwiches with him whilst staring at Harry like he was a snake in a zoo, eyes flicking over his fringe. He thinks about the pale, blonde boy he met in Diagon Alley, who had offered a neutral opinion of Harry’s choice in robes and then shaken his hand, later, on Platform 9 and 3 quarters. He thinks of the bossy, bookish girl that had burst into their compartment and thrown sharp words at them whilst simultaneously fixing Harry’s glasses.

 _True friends_ , the Sorting Hat adds. _That’s what you’ll find in Slytherin_.

His mother and father were in Gryffindor.

 _But they’re not anymore_ , the Hat says.

Harry frowns. It hurts, but it’s also true. It’s not like they’re around to be disappointed, and even if they had been, Harry likes to think that his parents would love him no matter what he chose, as long as he was happy. Is there really a wrong choice here? Ambition or courage or determination or loyalty. Cleverness or kindness. They all seem to boil down to the same thing, really.

 _Alright_ , Harry decides. _Slytherin_.

“Slytherin!” The Sorting Hat roars, and then it’s lifted off of his head and Harry can see again.

Wide-eyed expressions greet him. There’s a rush of murmurs, surprise and shock, and Harry turns to look at Professor McGonagall. She hastily rearranges her look of shock to something impassive, nudging him towards the Slytherin table with a jerk of her head.

“Off you go, Potter,” Professor McGonagall mutters quietly, and Harry goes.

There’s a smattering of applause eventually, but it’s stilted by surprise. Nobody on the Slytherin Table seems pleased to have Harry in their house – there’s a lot of shocked stares and blank looks, and then everyone looks away gradually. Harry slides onto the end of the bench – Pansy Parkinson looks at him curiously before shuffling away from him like he’s got the plague, tossing her sleek black hair over her shoulder, and Harry’s heart sinks in his chest. He tries to catch Ron’s eye, but the other boy is facing forward determinedly, his shoulders tense as he watches the next student move towards the stool.

Harry stares glumly at his empty plate and picks at the skin around his thumb. It’s only been three seconds and it already looks like he’s made a horrible mistake. His glasses slide along his nose and he pushes them up with his middle finger, feeling unfairly miserable. Ron is sorted into Gryffindor, and his brothers all cheer loudly, and then the line dwindles down until it’s only Blaise Zabini left, a black boy who strides smartly towards the Slytherin Table and delicately settles himself onto the bench beside Harry.

“Should have picked Gryffindor,” Harry mutters, and Zabini looks at him sharply.

“That’s not how to introduce yourself,” Zabini says, rolling his eyes. His voice is a little nasally, and he’s still got baby-fat on his cheeks. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Hello, handsome. Fancy seeing you here?’ It’s really not that difficult, Potter. Look, I’ll show you.”

Harry blinks dumbly as Zabini holds out a tiny hand and says, “Hello handsome, fancy seeing you here.”

Harry almost laughs, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. Is this a joke? Is it wizarding manners? Then he catches the grin playing at the corner of Zabini’s mouth and reaches out, shaking his hand hesitantly.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Harry says, a little shyly, and Zabini beams at him.

“Blaise Zabini. My mother always told me to keep hold of a boy with manners,” Zabini says, winking, and Harry snorts a surprised laugh, which just makes Zabini grin harder.

“Harry Potter,” Harry murmurs, just as Dumbledore gets up to speak, sweeping his arms out.

“Obviously,” Zabini quips, rolling his eyes kindly. They share a small, slightly shy smile, and then Zabini turns to face Dumbledore.

The food comes up through the tables like, well, magic, and Harry stares. He’s never seen this much food in his life, and he’s certainly never been allowed to eat what he wants, or as much as he wants – he’s familiar with feeling hungry, but here, that doesn’t look like it’s going to be a problem.

Pansy watches him eat with a look of morbid fascination.

“Eat some fruit, too, Potter,” she says, taking a bite out of cake. Harry blinks at her, a pastry halfway to his mouth, and Zabini snorts, leans forward to peer at her.

“Hypocrite, little miss sweet tooth,” Zabini says, and then the blonde boy from Diagon Alley appears in front of them and sits down opposite Harry, mumbling something about there being more room at this end of the table.

“Draco,” Pansy says delightedly. “Got your head out of your arse, then?”

It’s remarkably dry, for an eleven-year-old, and Harry chokes on his pastry.

Maybe Slytherin wasn’t a _completely_ horrible mistake.

*

_Six Years Later_

The curtains around his bed are yanked apart abruptly, letting in streams of bright sunlight. Harry doesn’t even bother sighing; after almost six years of early wake-up calls, Harry’s used to Blaise ruffling his bed-hair and demanding that he get up immediately whilst Draco and Goyle grumble in the background. Harry honestly doesn’t even have it in him anymore to protest.

“Morning, Blaise.” Harry opens one eye blearily and then shuts it again.

“Up and at ‘em, Potter,” Blaise says cheerfully. “It’s the first day of term! Worms to catch, and all that.”

“I don’t want a worm,” Harry says, yawning hugely. “I want to sleep. Preferably for another hour, or two.”

Blaise pretends to think about it for a moment, tapping his fingers against his chin, and then he whips Harry’s pillow out from under his head and whacks him in the face with it. Harry just lays there with the pillow on his face, welcoming the darkness, and Blaise snorts at his unresponsive form.

“You’re supposed to at least pretend that you’re alive and focused on the first day,” Draco says, strolling over with a towel slung over his shoulder, his hair still wet from the shower. “You’ve got the rest of the term to act like the inferi we all know you are.”

“Muggles call them zombies,” Harry says, in a muffled voice.

Draco huffs. “Muggles are imbeciles.”

“The boy has a point, shockingly,” Blaise says, and Draco rolls his eyes and stalks away. Harry pulls the pillow down to glare at Blaise, who tugs on a lock of Harry’s hair fondly. “Keep your wig on. He’s got a point about the first day of term, not about Muggles. It’s all downhill after today, after all!”

“I’m too tired for class.”

“Anyone would think you’d been out all night, partying, or playing that ridiculous broomstick game,” Blaise says derisively, rolling his eyes. “All you did was play chess with Malfoy.”

“Playing chess with Malfoy is mentally exhausting,” Harry protests. He wraps his arms around the pillow and rolls over, hugging it with his back to Blaise, who tuts as though Harry is a particularly unruly toddler.

“Potter, _breathing_ is mentally exhausting for you,” Draco drawls, from across the room. “And Blaise, really? _Broomstick game_? You know perfectly well that it’s called Quidditch.”

“I didn’t want to taint my beautiful mouth with that dirty word,” Blaise says, prodding Harry’s shoulder.

“I think you’d be quite good at Quidditch,” Harry offers, not for the first time. He burrows deeper under the warm covers. “You’ve got one hell of a swing on you, and you’re pretty fast.”

“Of course I’d be good at it,” Blaise dismisses blithely, examining his nails with a critical stare. “I’m excellent at all activities that involve balls flying at my face. I just think I make a better Cheerleader than a Chaser.”

“You just don’t want to damage your nails,” Draco snorts.

Blaise adopts a scandalised expression. “Of course I don’t, Draco. Harry, do you know how much it costs to get these done to such a high standard?”

Harry frowns into his pillow. “Nothing. You do it yourself, with _magic_.”

“My effort and hard work is priceless, Potter,” Blaise says, and then he waves a hand and Harry’s sheets fly across the room, hitting Draco in the face. Harry groans and shivers at the unwelcome brush of cold air, but it’s drowned out by Blaise’s delighted laugh.

“I guess that answers the age-old question of boxers or briefs,” Blaise drawls gleefully. “I’ll be sure to let Luna know. They can print it in the Quibbler, under next week’s article about Fudge’s foretold untimely demise at the hands of a swarm of trained doxies.”

Harry can’t help but laugh at that. Blaise starts to poke him in the leg, and Draco mutters something about how _Potter isn’t an all-you-can-eat buffet, Blaise, stop being so handsy,_ and Harry eventually rolls out of bed and instigates a short, _savage_ pillow war. He hides a grin as Draco squawks and bats Blaise’s hands away from his hair, ducking behind Goyle, who blinks sleepily at them as though he’s only just realised that his eyes are open – it’s _good_ to be home.

When they get to the Great Hall, Harry waves to Ron and Hermione. Hermione waves back absently, a thick book in her hand, and Ron grins through a mouthful of food. Hermione notices and thwacks Ron with the book, launching into a lecture. Harry smirks when Ron shoots him a pleading look. _You’re on your own_ , _mate_ , Harry mouths, and Ron grimaces, shovelling more toast into his mouth.

“Primate,” Draco mutters under his breath, but there’s no nastiness in his voice. Harry rolls his eyes, follows them as Blaise gets a hand on Draco’s collar and all but drags him towards the Slytherin Table, where they collapse onto the bench, bickering quietly. Harry collapses into the seat opposite Pansy, who arches an eyebrow at him over the top of her newspaper (it’s glamoured to look like a glossy fashion magazine, but anyone who knows Pansy at all knows that it’s The Daily Prophet).

“Your hair is atrocious,” Pansy greets him, tapping her perfectly manicured nails against the table. “I wish you’d let me style it, or at least brush it, for Merlin’s sake.”

“I _do_ brush it, it just doesn't make any difference. And we’ve had this conversation,” Harry tells her firmly, pouring himself some Pumpkin Juice. Blaise steals the goblet before he’s even finished pouring, and Harry puts the jug down with a sigh.

“We have,” Pansy agrees, “but since I haven’t won yet, the conversation is ongoing. Deal with it, Potter.” She reaches over and snatches the goblet out of Blaise’s hand, placing it firmly in front of Harry and ignoring Blaise’s wounded expression.

A second later, Blaise steals Draco’s goblet out from under his mouth and says, “Blame Parkinson,” when Draco glares at him.

“Why is Potter your favourite?” Draco whines, kicking Pansy under the table. Pansy kicks him back harder with the tip of her pointy boot and Draco swears harshly, rubbing his shin.

“Is it the eyes?” Blaise demands, hastily gulping down Draco’s drink when Draco narrows his eyes like he’s thinking of pouncing. Harry levitates the jug down the table and Draco accepts it gratefully.

“It can’t be the hair, the hair sickens you,” Blaise continues. “Besides, mine is much better than his. Draco’s is, too, come to that. It has to be the eyes.”

“It’s that damn smile,” Draco mutters, and Harry chokes on his toast.

Blaise looks at him with interest as Harry continues to splutter, and Draco stares determinedly at his plate, spooning scrambled eggs onto it and applying liberal amounts of pepper.

“Boys, boys,” Pansy says flatly, disappearing behind her paper. “You’re all pretty. Quit dick-slinging before one of you dies.”

Harry doesn’t bother replying, still attempting to expel crumbs from his windpipe. Draco’s face is flushed red, and Harry refuses to look at him. He glances at Blaise instead, and immediately regrets it. There’s a glint in the other boy’s eyes that he doesn’t like. In his experience, that glint means trouble.

“Draco’s right,” Blaise says, after a pause. “Got to be the smile. And Merlin, you don’t even do anything to your mouth. Harry, _darling_ , what would you say if I offered to brighten it up even more? Just a little bit of lip-liner and you’d have everyone falling at your feet.”

Blaise smacks his lips, and Harry shoots him an amused look. “ _We’ve_ had _this_ conversation, too. Not my thing.”

“Not even a bit of gloss?” Blaise suggests.

Harry sighs, picks up his half-eaten toast and says, “Next time you get me drunk, sure.”

Pansy meets his eyes. “And?”

Harry looks at her warily. “And what?”

“You know perfectly well _what_ , Potter.”

Harry sighs again, rips a bit of toast apart with his teeth. “Fine, whatever. You can do my hair, too.”

Pansy’s grin is positively wicked. “Wonderful. Now, hurry up and drink your pumpkin juice. I want to get to class early.”

The day is dull, and Harry is tired enough that he falls asleep in the middle of Divination. He’s not even sure why he picked Divination – not true, he picked it because it was supposed to be an easy, bullshit class, and so far only the latter part is true – but he regrets it now.

Harry jerks awake with the remnants of a dream still lingering in the corners of his mind. He yawns, stretches, registers the hushed tone of Trelawney, who’s lounging dramatically on a pile of cushions, and wishes he could go back to sleep.

He glances around his table and grins automatically.

Ron is snoring lightly, head pillowed on his arms and _Unfogging the Future_ discarded in front of him.

Draco looks as though he’s mastered the art of sleeping with his eyes open. His chin is propped up on his hand and his eyes are glazed over, his mouth a little slack. Harry can see the crystal ball reflected in his eyes, and wants to laugh at the blonde hair that’s falling over his forehead. He stopped wearing his hair slicked back in their second year, after Pansy finally snapped in the middle of fighting a large Basilisk, shrieking that Draco’s hair was ridiculous and made him look like a slimy accountant, just moments before Harry drove a silver sword into the creature’s mouth.

“It was in the heat of the moment,” Pansy had hissed afterwards, whilst Ron and Blaise had leaned weakly against a pillar and pissed themselves laughing at Draco’s shell-shocked expression. “I thought I was going to die, Draco, and I just had to let you know the truth.”

“Low blow,” Draco had said back faintly, and Harry had wanted to laugh, but he had been too busy passing out because of the poisonous fang in his arm.

When he had woken up in the hospital wing, a few days later, all of his friends were in various states of collapse in chairs around his bed, and Draco’s hair was softly tousled, no trace of hair gel in sight.

“My dears,” comes Trelawney’s voice, and Harry hastily kicks both Draco and Ron under the table. Ron jerks awake with a swear word on his lips and Draco leans forward immediately with wide eyes, pretending to peer deeply into the crystal ball. Harry stifles a laugh beneath his knuckle.

“What do you see?” Trelawney whispers, her eyes wide and bug-like beneath her huge glasses. “Do you see misfortune? An omen? Or maybe even … a death, perhaps?”

Draco glances up at Harry, his mouth furiously twitching, and then says, “Something worse. The Chudley Cannons might actually come _second_ to last this year, instead of dead last.”

“Piss off,” Ron hisses, his voice low enough that he can easily disguise it as a cough. Harry sinks down in his seat and tries not to burst into laughter.

Professor Trelawney stares at them disappointedly, and then sighs dramatically as she floats away.

“That woman should be on a cloud somewhere,” Draco says under his breath. “Preferably on the opposite side of the world. In the middle of a thunderstorm.”

“Nah, then I’d have to pick a real subject,” Ron says, cracking his jaw as he yawns. “Don’t know about you, but I’d rather make shit up about my drastic dreams than do whatever the hell Hermione was doing yesterday. I thought Arithmancy was supposed to be about _numbers_ , but there were letters in it.”

Draco blinks at him slowly, like he thinks Ron is the dumbest person on the planet, but Harry knows this expression well, has had it aimed at him on more than one occasion. It’s Draco’s _why am I friends with you_ look, which is heaps better than the scathing looks he used to throw at Ron, before Harry befriended the red-haired boy in the middle of their first year and demanded that they all got along.

“Arithmancy is about the study of equations and calculations and statistics,” Draco says, launching into his lecture voice. “Numbers are the primary focus of the topic, but letters are often used as stand-ins for impossible or unknown numbers, so that –”

Ron holds up a hand like he can physically stop the conversation, a look of disgust on his face. “Merlin’s _balls_ , Malfoy. If I wanted to know I would have taken the damn subject. Either that or I’d actually pay attention to Hermione when she talks about this stuff. It’s like having another one of her around, only _pointier_. How can you stand him?”

The last bit is aimed jokingly at Harry, who grins slyly and says, “He grows on you. Like a fungus.”

Malfoy slowly blushes red and flips them both off.

 

*

 

“Who’s that?” Harry asks, putting down his fork with a frown. The Great Hall is busy, and considering it’s only their second day back at Hogwarts, Harry isn’t exactly surprised. It doesn’t look like there’s a single student missing, except Draco. Harry has to stop himself from glancing up at the door every few minutes in search of him.

“Who?” Pansy asks, with a bored tone of voice.

“That man up there,” Harry says, jerking his thumb at the teacher’s table. There’s a man sat beside Dumbledore, with a rippling moustache and salt-and-pepper hair, his tie slightly askew. They look like they’re discussing something in serious tones, and Harry can tell that he’s not the only person who’s noticed; students are speaking in hushed voices, glancing at the man with perplexed expressions. Across the hall, Hermione is frowning up at the man whilst Ron pokes her in the shoulder with his spoon, attempting to catch her attention.

Pansy spares the table a glance, busy peeling an apple with her wand. The skin curls out like a pink streamer, the exact shade of the paint on Pansy’s lips.

“Somebody boring, no doubt,” Pansy says flatly, although Harry can see a spark of interest in her eye. “He looks like every other middle-aged wizard out there going through a personal crisis. I expect he works in the Ministry somewhere, judging by the shockingly ugly suit.”

“How can you tell that he’s in the middle of a crisis?” Harry asks. He’s slightly distracted as Draco slips in through the doors with a furtive expression, something clutched in his arms. Harry watches him descend the steps with a curious frown.

Pansy waves her hand at the man, as though it’s obvious to anyone with a brain. “That moustache,” Pansy explains, just as Draco collapses opposite them, setting a large yellow teapot in front of them.

They all pause to blink at the monstrosity.

“Made a new friend?” Harry ventures, after a minute of silence, and Draco scowls at him. Blaise laughs delightedly, pats Harry’s hair with a fond look.

“I can’t get the spell right in Charms, and Flitwick said I should practice on pottery,” Draco explains, frowning at Blaise’s hand inexplicably. “Apparently if the spell goes wrong, it tends to shatter whatever the object of your focus is, and pottery is the easiest thing to repair.”

Blaise hums and says, “Understandable. Not inexcusable, though, not in _that_ colour. Honestly, Draco, it looks like a hazard sign, or one of those poisonous frogs that warn you not to touch it. Yellow is just so … _plebeian_.”

“Luna likes yellow,” Harry offers, picking his fork back up. “She looks pretty in it.”

Draco mutters under his breath, waving his wand a little too fiercely. The teapot turns bright pink, instead, and Blaise and Pansy both make identical noises of amusement.

“Indeed she does, dear Harry,” Blaise says cheerily. “As would you, I’m sure.”

“It wouldn’t go with his eyes,” Draco says, and then scowls when they all look at him. “What were you talking about when I came in?”

“Moustaches,” Harry says, and Draco winces.

“Please, don’t grow one,” Draco says, grimacing as he pulls out his textbook. “I wouldn’t be able to look at you without laughing.”

“And Merlin knows what a shame that would be, wouldn’t it, Draco?” Blaise says loudly. “Imagine not being able to look at Harry. I think I’d cry myself to sleep every night, wouldn’t you?”

Harry shakes his head fondly, says, “You’re mad. But I wasn’t talking about that, anyway. We were talking about that guy, up there.”

He points to the man with his fork, and Draco stops burning a hole through Blaise’s skull with his glare in order to follow Harry’s gaze. Then his expression sharpens.

“He looks familiar,” Draco says. “I think he’s been to one of my parents’ Christmas Balls, once or twice. I’ve never spoken to him though.”

Harry snorts; it’s been years, but he still can’t get over the fact that one of his best friends is part of a family that hosts their own balls. Harry has money, but the Malfoy’s are ridiculously rich, as are the Parkinson’s and Zabini’s. It’s the kind of thing that knocks you off your feet every now and again, when they mention their holiday homes or expensive trips to Egypt.

“I told you it was someone boring,” Pansy says, rolling her eyes.

Blaise tilts his head to the side, thoughtfully. “Actually, Pansy, I think you might be wrong, for once.”

“Call the press,” Harry mumbles, and Draco snickers, catching Harry’s eye over the top of his textbook. For a moment, their gazes catch, and Harry feels something sweep through him, curling pleasantly at the base of his spine before he quickly looks away, his cheeks warm.

Pansy puts down her apple and glares at Blaise. “I’m an excellent judge of character – Harry, you’ve barely touched your food, _eat_ something before I _make_ you – and I don’t like what you’re implying, Zabini. Who suspected Quirrell in our first year?”

“I did,” Draco puts in, waving his wand at the teapot. The porcelain pattern morphs itself into a perfect sphere, and Draco grins smugly. “That level of pathetic had to be an act.”

“And who worked out that Remus Lupin was a werewolf before Snape outed him?” Pansy continues, as though Draco hadn’t spoken.

“Hermione did,” Harry replies, but he may as well have kept his mouth shut, because Pansy barrels on regardless.

“And who, Blaise Zabini, worked out that the pretty little Ravenclaw boy last year, whom you all thought was sweet and perfect, was only pretending to have a crush on Zabini because of a dare?”

“That would be Harry,” Blaise says, unbothered. “If I remember correctly, he suspected it for about three months, which I personally think was due to jealousy, but we’ll pretend it was his protective instinct.” He pats Harry on the cheek with a smile, and Harry lets him; it isn’t exactly untrue, it had been a mix of jealousy and his protective instinct, plus an inherent dislike of the Ravenclaw boy’s smarmy little grin and lithe figure. Blaise had eaten up the attention with delight and then cursed the Ravenclaw boy – Zach, Harry thought he was called – with a flick of his wrist.

Zach had walked around with antlers for a good two weeks.

Pansy ignores them, picks up her apple daintily and takes a vicious bite out of it, dabbing at her mouth with a corner of a napkin when juice runs over her lip.

“Yes, yes, message received,” Blaise says, rolling his eyes. “You’re a terrifying bundle of intimidation and you deserve more respect. You’re also wrong, this time.”

Draco abandons his teapot-sphere in favour of arching an eyebrow at Blaise. “Really Zabini? What’s brought on the sudden death wish?”

“The realisation that Potter might never truly love me,” Blaise says solemnly, and Harry shoves at his shoulder with an embarrassed groan. Blaise cackles loudly at the look on Draco’s face and continues, “That, plus the presence of one Barty Crouch.”

As one, they turn to look curiously at the man at the teacher’s table.

“According to my mother’s weekly letters, he’s rather rich, which means he’s probably at the top of her list somewhere.”

Harry grimaces. “You and your mother have a strange relationship.”

Blaise flaps a diffident hand at him. “Not the point, Harry dear.”

“What _is_ the point then?” Pansy demands, just as Dumbledore stands up and claps his hands.

“I think we’re about to find out,” Blaise mutters.

Silence falls over the hall and they all stare at Dumbledore, who smiles benignly back at them all, his spectacles shining like half-moons.

“Students,” he says, his voice carrying. “I hope, first of all, that you’re enjoying your first week back at Hogwarts. I’m aware that some of you managed to receive detentions before lessons even began, and I’m sure I shouldn’t celebrate that achievement, but elderly folk are often quite forgetful. Now, where was I?”

There’s a shout of delight from the Gryffindor Table.

“On a more serious note,” Dumbledore says, his expression grave. “I would like to introduce Mr Barty Crouch, Head of The International Sports Department at the Ministry of Magic.”

“Boring _my arse_ ,” Draco mutters, his eyes shining, and Pansy rolls her eyes.

“What is with boys and Quidditch?” she says, and Harry snorts. He’s seen the posters of the Holyhead Harpies that Pansy keeps in her trunk, and the little figurine of the Keeper that zooms around her dressing table.

“Pansy, I think you’re in luck,” Blaise murmurs, narrow-eyed and focused keenly on Crouch, who rounds the table. “I don’t think this has anything to do with Quidditch at all.”

Blaise is right.

It's not Quidditch. It's the Triwizard Tournament.  

*


	2. The Goblet of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's name comes out of the Goblet of Fire and absolutely no one is surprised, not even Cedric Diggory, but someone is definitely pissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry, this might be shit because my laptop is currently undergoing experimental surgery, and I am desperately awaiting the news, which means I'm writing this on my phone! But here's the next chapter, anyway. I hope it's worth the wait! 
> 
> Some swearing, nothing else :) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it! Thank you for all the lovely response last time, by the way!

Cedric Diggory isn't as shocked as he should be when Harry Potter follows him into the champion chamber. The boy looks slightly shell-shocked, blinking dazedly at the glass cases full of glinting trophies, his face pale and his mouth turned down, and Cedric knows instantly that Potter didn't put his name in the Goblet of Fire. Nobody looks that unhappy over fooling a magical object to win a thousand galleons and the respect of three schools. Nobody looks that unhappy unless they've been thoroughly screwed over or hit with a shocking curse, and Cedric is going to take a guess and say that it's probably the former.

So he knows it probably wasn't Potter that put his name in the cup, and he knows it probably means something bad for the boy, but it doesn't change the fact that there's something in his chest that tightens when he watches Potter sit down on a wooden chair and stare vacantly at Fleur as she demands an explanation.

Cedric can't help but be _slightly_ pissed that Harry's here, now, not when it was his chance to prove that Hufflepuff wasn't a throwaway house, not when he was handed the opportunity to bring a little glory to his friends, and his schools. Maybe it's arrogance or big-headedness, or maybe it's good old-fashioned jealousy.

Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived, after all. He's the person who defeated You-Know-Who at the age of one, the person who's known by every witch and wizard in the magical world, the person who's destined to defeat Him again, should He ever come back.

 _He's also the boy who lost his parents, the boy who was thrown into this world at eleven with no idea about anything_ , says a small voice in Cedric's head. There are rumours about Potter's home life, and about the mass-murderer that came to find him in third year. There are rumours of a basilisk in his second year, plus the whole heir of Slytherin thing, and everyone knows Potter can speak Parseltongue, and there are whispers of Quirrel in their first year, and honestly, Cedric thinks it should be obvious that Harry didn't do it, didn't put his name in the Goblet of Fire - the guy barely survives a normal year at Hogwarts, why would he sign up for a possibly fatal competition with students that are all going to be older and more experienced than him?

The point is, Harry Potter has been at the centre of everything dangerous and dramatic since he first set foot in Hogwarts, and even before that, so Cedric really isn't surprised to see him.

"I'll walk back with you," Cedric announces, when the teachers have all had their say and taken their leave, huffing and puffing between themselves. Harry shoots him a look of wary surprise, and then nods, grateful.

Before they leave, Dumbledore claps them both softly on the shoulder and says kindly, "Good luck, to the both of you."

It warms something inside of Cedric, and the elated feeling at being chosen comes back vigorously. He wonders what his parents will say when they hear. They'll be proud, no doubt, and they'll also be worried sick, although he already knows his dad will do a brilliant job of hiding any concern behind slightly pompous, embarrassing bragging.

Cedric abruptly remembers that Potter doesn't have any parents to be embarrassingly proud of him, and the happiness dims a little in his chest.

The walk back through the castle is a little stiff and awkward.

"So did you do it?" Cedric asks, just for the sake of asking.

Harry grits his teeth. "No. Contrary to what everyone believes, I don't actually have a death wish."

Cedric quirks his eyebrow. "I believe you."

Harry glances up at him sharply, his green eyes flashing intensely. There's something about Harry that Cedric will never quite be able to put his finger on, something bright that flickers beneath the surface, an untapped potential -- a strength, perhaps, one that most people lack.

Harry Potter is the kind of person that people will gladly follow into war.

It's a sickening, startling realisation, that this boy will be the one to have to lead an army one day -- Cedric isn't stupid, he knows what's coming -- and Cedric wishes he hadn't thought of it. Instead, he avoids the intensity of that gaze, and nods.

"Yeah, I do," Cedric says. "Don't ask me why, but I do. Other people won't though, especially not in my house."

"Hufflepuff don't get the credit they deserve," Harry mutters, grimacing, and Cedric's opinion of him sky-rockets immediately. "I'm sorry, by the way. For stealing your moment. Even though it was an accident."

He looks so miserable that Cedric has to lighten the mood somehow. He claps Harry firmly on the shoulder just as they reach the stairway to the dungeons and smirks.

"Don't count your chimeras so soon, Potter. You haven't won yet, and I reckon I can beat you in a fair fight."

Harry grins back. "Who says I'll be fighting fair?"

"Slytherin," Cedric accuses, and Harry shrugs a little, pushing his glasses up with a smile.

"Yeah," he says, almost proudly. "Yeah, I am."

 *

"Did you put your name in?" Pansy asks quietly.

They're curled up on the comfy chairs in the Slytherin common room; Pansy and Draco sit opposite him, and Blaise is at his side, muttering angrily under his breath as he mangles a cushion with his hands.

Pansy has her legs folded under her and looks quite small in an over-sized grey jumper that she borrowed from Harry and never gave back. She's holding onto Millicent's cat, scratching her ears gently with long, purple nails, and staring at Harry with an indecipherable expression  
  
"You even have to ask?" Harry demands. "Of course I didn't. Why would I enter a competition that could basically kill me? I was looking forward to another normal year."

Blaise puts a hand on Harry's shoulder and leans in, looking as serious as Blaise ever gets. Draco still hasn't said a word, sat across from Harry on the opposite couch, avoiding everyone's gaze. It's unsettling. Malfoy always has something to say, especially when it comes to Harry.

"We believe you, Harry," Blaise says, "but this is serious. Granger was right about one thing; The Goblet of Fire is an incredibly powerful object, and as such, there's incredibly powerful magic attached to it. I don't think we can break it's hold on you."

Harry looks down at his hands miserably. "Crouch said it was a binding magical contract. He's an expert on this kind of stuff, isn't he?"

Pansy nods. "Crouch might be dull, but he's not stupid. If there was a way to break this contract then he would have done it immediately. For one thing, the tournament's dangerous, and you're underage. You haven't learnt what you need to learn, so you'll be at a disadvantage. For another thing, you're the Boy Who Lived. If you get so much as a scratch on you, and the press get their hands on it, it's at least one persons' job on the line. Probably Crouch's."

There's a heavy silence, wherein Harry looks at Draco and everyone else looks at the floor, and then Blaise sits up straight, scowling.

"This is stupid," Blaise snaps. "You shouldn't have to do this. There should be a fail safe or something."

"There isn't," Pansy says simply, although she doesn't sound happy about it. "And ruminating about it won't help. Like I said, Potter, you're going to be at a disadvantage. We need to get you up to date on as many spells and curses as possible, and work out what the first task will be in plenty of time, so we can prepare for the inevitable shit-storm."

Harry looks up, eyes widening. "You're going to help me?"

Blaise snorts like Harry's an idiot, and Pansy arches an eyebrow, a smirk playing around her mouth.

"You even have to ask?"

* 

Harry sits on his bed and waits for Blaise to shut the bathroom door behind him. Greg catches Harry's eye and nods quickly, offers him a simple smile as he slips out of the room. Harry's grateful, once again, that Gregory Goyle isn't as stupid as he first seemed. He knows when a situation's about to become awkward, at least.

Harry doesn't actually _want_ to confront Draco, but he can't stand the silence anymore. Draco still hasn't said a word since Harry's name shot up out of the Goblet.

The dormitory is a little dark, but Harry can easily see the lines of frustration in Draco's face as he comes closer, despite the way Draco's standing, like he's reluctant to let Harry look at him. He's all rigid shoulders and tense lines, and Harry frowns even as he corners Draco beside the other boys' bed, gets a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you mad at me?" Harry demands, trying to get Draco to turn around.

Draco shakes his head stiffly. "Why would you think that?"

"Really? You're going to play dumb?"

"Just taking a leaf out of your book."

Harry lets his hand fall to his side. "What the hell, Malfoy? Why are you mad at me?"

Draco rolls his eyes and turns around, messing around with his bedcovers. He still won't actually look at Harry, and it's beginning to piss him off.

"Why do you care?"

"Why do I care?" Harry echoes, throwing his hands out. "Oh, I don't know, why do I care? Maybe because I don't want one of my best friends to be pissed at me? Maybe because I'd like it if one of my best friends actually believed me when I said I didn't put my name in that cup?"

"Blaise is your best friend," Draco says mildly, and that -- that is infuriating.

"And Pansy's yours," Harry shoots back immediately. "What, does that mean we're just classmates? Just acquaintances?"

"Big word, Potter, I'm proud."

There's none of the teasing quality that Draco usually employs when they toss insults back and forth; this is all bite and venom, and Harry feels like his stomach's dropped out of him. He blinks up at Draco in disbelief, his heart thudding angrily against his chest.

"You really don't believe me, do you?"

Draco doesn't say anything.

"Draco, I didn't put my name in that Goblet. You have to believe me."

Draco spins round so quickly that Harry takes an automatic step backwards, bewildered. There's this angry glint in Draco's storm-grey eyes, like ice and harsh bitterness.

"I don't have to believe you, actually," Draco spits out. "Why did you do it? Why couldn't you just finish off your years at Hogwarts without fucking everything up again? Why the hell can't you be content with being the Boy Who Lived? Why do you have to put yourself in stupidly dangerous situations and then drag your friends along too?"

Harry stares at him mutely. Draco is breathing harshly, and there's already something that looks like the beginnings of regret in his eyes, but for the most part Draco just looks stunned, like he didn't expect the words to fall out when he opened his mouth.

He's not taking it back though. 

Harry takes another step back, purposeful this time. He feels a bit sick. 

"Fine," Harry says coldly. "Don't believe me, and don't help me. I never asked for your help anyway."

"Fine," Draco snaps back. "Whatever."

Harry watches as Draco throws himself onto the bed, fully-clothed, back to Harry. He hears the bathroom door open, vaguely registers Blaise's concerned tone over the sound of blood rushing to his ears, and then he's turning around and snatching up the invisibility cloak and storming out of the dormitory, sprinting out of the common room before he can say something that he'll really regret.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo, second chapter done! Here's hoping it was a good'un. Thanks so much, please leave a comment/kudos on the way out, I'd really appreciate it! 
> 
> Find me at "thealmostrhetoricalquestion" on tumblr. Come say hi! 
> 
> Thanks again! :)


	3. The First Task

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Ron are comforting, Pansy has a word with Draco (several sharp words, actually) and Blaise gives Harry a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter! Thanks so much for all the response, all the lovely comments are really very much appreciated. Hope you enjoy!

 

"You guys are Slytherins, how the bloody hell haven't you figured out what the task is yet?"

"Because we aren't telepathic?" Pansy suggests, in a soft tone of voice that usually means she's feeling particularly violent and is not to be trifled with. Harry makes a slightly frantic throat-cutting gesture at Ron, who's too busy examining a chocolate frog to notice.

"And it's only been a week since Harry's name came out of the Goblet," Blaise says, before Pansy can add to her Not Quite Threat. "We're geniuses, Weasley, but we're also lazy."

"You might be," Pansy sniffs. "But I've actually made some progress."

Hermione looks up from her book, a faint frown still etched on her face. "How so?"

Pansy flips her hair over her shoulders smugly. "I have my ways. A little bird told me that your friend, the giant, knows something about the task, and he plans to divulge that information to Madam Maxine."

Harry blinks up at her from where he's standing, legs tied together with rope. They're supposed to be practicing offensive spells, but mostly it's just been a lot of Harry standing around whilst Hermione aims her wand at him. He's not sure if she's working out her anger over him being in another life-threatening situation, or if she's just delighted at the prospect of learning. It's probably both, knowing Hermione.

"Hagrid?" Harry asks. "How would Hagrid know about the first task?"

Pansy shrugs delicately.

"Oh Merlin," Ron mumbles, eyes going wide. "If Hagrid's involved, then does that mean you're going to have to fight some kind of insanely large, dangerous monster? Like a giant poisonous flobberworm or something?"

"Flobberworms aren't exactly dangerous though, are they Ronald?" Hermione says, rolling her eyes.

"Hence why I said large. And poisonous."

"It's a fair point, though," Hermione continues, ignoring Ron. She taps her chin thoughtfully and closes her book, placing it on a dusty windowsill beside a precariously balanced pile of other books.

"Is anyone going to untie me?" Harry asks weakly, trying not to topple over. He's got pretty good balance -- he has to, if he wants to keep his spot on the Quidditch team as Seeker -- but he's been standing there for fifteen minutes and his legs are starting to go numb.

"I don't know, love." Blaise cocks his head to the side. "You're quite the spectacle."

Harry attempts a glare, but glares don't work on Blaise. Glares have never worked on Blaise, not even when they come from people like Pansy or McGonagall.

Ron snorts, takes a vicious bite of his chocolate frog. "What you two get up to in your own time is fine, mate, but I don't want to see it. Speaking of things I don't want to see, where's Malfoy?"

"Yes, I wondered where he was," Hermione says. "I keep waiting for him to make some rude remark about my methods. It's sort of off-putting to not have him here, putting me off."

“He’s probably doing his hair,” Blaise says airily.

Harry ducks his head and pretends to be busy with the ropes.

"Er – actually, he's busy," he says lightly, fiddling with a particularly difficult knot. He doesn't look up, but the silence speaks volumes.

After a pause, Pansy narrows her eyes and says, "When you say busy, I assume you mean that he's just running late and will be joining us any minute now. With books full of useful information, and knowledge on what the first task is.”

Harry clears his throat, scratches his nose and pretends there's nobody else in the room.

"That little shit," Blaise says mildly. Harry glances over and winces. Blaise has his hands clenched into fists at his side, and his warm brown eyes glint lividly.  

"Leave him alone," Harry says bluntly. "No threats, no curses. He's focusing on schoolwork this year, okay?"

"Like _hell_ he is," Blaise says mutinously.

"He doesn't have to help," Harry says, impatiently. He doesn't want to think about it anymore. "It's exam year. None of you asked for this, and none of you have to help."

"Would you help us?" Hermione asks quietly. She waves her wand, and the little crease between her eyebrows grows prominent. Harry's knees almost buckle as the ropes around his legs disappear.

"If it was the other way around," Hermione continues. "If one of us had been entered instead of you, would you help us?"

Harry blinks at her. There's no question. "Of course."

Hermione doesn't say anything else, but she doesn't need to. Blaise and Pansy share a dark look, and Harry avoids their gaze. Ron comes up and slaps him on the shoulder, offers him a half-eaten chocolate frog, which is kind of gross, but Harry takes a miserable bite anyway.

"Malfoy’ll come around," Ron says grudgingly. "He's not a complete ass, not _all_ of the time. If he doesn’t, I’ll talk to Fred and George, see if they’ve got anything in the works that hasn’t been tested yet.”

“Ron,” Hermione says warningly, but Ron ignores her.

“Anyway, what do you need him for? You've got Hermione, she could get you this thing singlehandedly, blindfolded."

" _Ronald_ ," Hermione protests, but she’s blushing, this time.

Harry grins back, and if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, then his friends are kind enough not to mention it. Hermione, however, isn't content with that. She crosses the room purposefully, kisses Harry on the cheek and smiles.

"We believe you, Harry."

 

*

 

The library is relatively empty, so Pansy spots Draco straight away. He’s partially obscured behind a veritable mountain of books, his own private fortress against the forces of evil – otherwise known as Parkinson and Zabini.

Draco’s in luck, though. Blaise is with Harry, so it’s just her, and she hasn’t even brought her little arsenal of trick jokes with her, the ones she orders occasionally from the Weasley joke shop that isn’t as unimpressive as she likes to pretend it is. She crosses the room, her heels clicking smartly against the floor, and drops her bag down on the floor, folding herself gracefully into the chair opposite Draco.

Pansy leans back in the chair and folds one ankle delicately over the other, hands resting in her lap. A Ravenclaw boy gives her an appreciative look as he passes by, and Pansy winks at him, smirks when he fumbles his hold on the book and then scurries away up the nearest aisle.

“If you’ve finished tormenting the regulars,” Draco drawls, “I have an essay to write.”

Pansy looks at him critically, watches his shoulders tense up further and further the longer the silence stretches, notes the way he keeps his head ducked down, nose almost pressed to the parchment in order to avoid looking at her. She can practically see him thinking that maybe if he keeps quiet enough, stays still enough, she’ll get bored and go away.

Fat chance.

“I’d like to introduce you to someone,” Pansy says mildly, scanning the ceiling as she tips back even further in her chair. Intimidation is an art form, one that she mastered when she was young. She doesn’t necessarily _want_ to intimidate Draco, but she definitely wants the other boy to know she’s pissed at him.

Draco spares her a wary, questioning glance.

“He’s quite small, for a boy,” Pansy says, tapping her nails against the table idly. “Not much taller than me, and hardly any muscle on him. He’s fast, certainly, but a House Elf could knock him out with one blow if they tried. And he’s not stupid, either, but he’s not _exactly_ what you’d call academically gifted, which means his collection of spells that he can accurately pull off is considerably smaller than one might need, if one were about to fight a _fucking_ _dragon_.”

The end of Draco’s quill snaps off, and he looks up, his face pale.

“A _what_?”

“A dragon, Draco,” Pansy says impatiently, dropping the act. “A large, scaly beast that has thrice as much muscle than is really necessary, powerful wings that can outfly even the youngest seeker to ever grace Hogwarts, and a tendency to breathe fire when pissed off. And I really have no doubt that the dragon will be pissed off, since Harry’s got to _steal_ one of its’ _eggs_.”

Draco looks at her, his mouth slack with horror. “Who’s idea was _that_? And how the hell are they supposed to keep a dragon from _killing_ him? And how did _you_ find out?”

“I have my sources.” Pansy says primly, brushing invisible lint off her skirt.

“Of course you do,” Draco mutters, a touch of fondness in his voice, and Pansy is abruptly reminded that Draco is her best friend. They grew up together. They went to each other’s birthdays, made each other awful Christmas cards and chased each other around the gardens with water bombs, shrieking. They were each other’s first kiss. When Draco’s parents’ divorced each other, Pansy was there, building a fort out of Draco’s sheets and dragging him inside with an abundance of sweets and games. They giggled under tables at their parent’s boring parties, clutching cakes and making rude remarks on all of the guest’s clothes.

They still do that, obviously, but just not under tables.

“Draco,” she says softly, leaning forward. “What happened?”

Draco’s face goes blank and he turns his head away slightly, selecting another quill with an unconcerned air. “I’m sure Potter told you all about it.”

“ _Harry_ didn’t say anything,” Pansy snaps. She slams both hands down on the table and leans across it until she’s looming over Draco’s surprised face. “Harry just said that you wouldn’t be helping him survive these tasks. He _said_ that you were probably busy with schoolwork. Schoolwork, Draco, now did you honestly expect me to believe that?”

She sits back down. “He also called you a fair few swear words, but I don’t think I was supposed to hear those.”

Draco winces a little.

“You don’t honestly think he put his name in that cup, do you?”

Draco shrugs, looks down at his book.

“I’m not stupid, Draco,” Pansy says, lowering her voice. “If this is about your crush, then –”

She stops as Draco’s expression shifts from guilt to panic and watches him flap his hands at her frantically. Pansy rolls her eyes and bats his hands away, leaning down to scoop up her bag.

“I’m not going to tell anyone anything,” she says. “ _You_ should, though. If this is what this is all about, then maybe you should consider helping Harry anyway, since I think it might be even harder to cope with a crush on someone who’s just been trampled to death by a dragon. And you should tell Blaise, too, because I’ve never seen him more pissed at you. Not even when you swapped his hair gel out for broomstick wax and glue.” 

Draco grimaces, a small shudder running down his spine.

“Potter’s not incompetent,” Draco mutters. “He’ll be fine. And Blaise isn’t his _keeper_.”

“Harry trips down the stairs on a daily basis because he’s spotted something shiny in one of the portrait’s,” Pansy says drily, flicking her fingers at Draco. “He thought it was a good idea to punch a crazed mass murderer in the face. There were three owl feathers in his cereal, once, and he ate them and didn’t even _notice_. He’s not _incompetent_ , but he is slightly hopeless, Draco.”

There’s a quiet pause. Pansy waits for Draco to speak, but when he stays silent, she sighs and turns to walk away.

“I don’t know why I love him.”

It’s not a shock, exactly, but it is a surprise, and Pansy goes still, eyebrows arching. She turns back and watches Draco blanch, rub his hands through his hair and sigh harshly. Pansy smiles sympathetically, leans across the table and kisses him lightly on the forehead.

“Figure it out.”

 

*

 

Blaise watches, charmed, as Hermione Granger distracts the Ministry official’s outside of the Champion’s tent, wailing loudly about her non-existent boyfriend breaking up with her. In about ten minutes, if Blaise isn’t done, then Ron and Ginny Weasley will appear, shrieking at each other about family-related drama – something they had been rather eager to do.

Hermione winks at him, eyes dry, from under the arm of an alarmed, panicked man, and Blaise blows her a kiss as he sneaks past. He would have used Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, but he doesn’t like to touch it without asking – it belonged to Harry’s father, after all.

He pulls aside the tent flat, hisses Harry’s name through the gap, and watches as he whips around, eyes wide and nervous behind his clunky glasses. No matter how often Blaise offers to buy him a new, more stylish pair of frames, Harry always declines quietly, wryly stating that they’ll be broken within a week.

“Harry,” Blaise hisses again, beckoning him over. Harry shoots a panicked look behind him; Cedric Diggory, gorgeous golden boy that he is, shoots them both smiles of amusement and shoos Harry out with a wave of his hand. Blaise blows him a kiss, too.

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry tells him, as Blaise yanks him outside and draws him over to the nearest tree.

“You love it,” Blaise declares, and then he examines Harry critically.

“I’m fine, Blaise,” Harry mutters, fisting his hands over the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’m just contemplating what death feels like, that’s all. What if it doesn’t work?”

“Are you doubting our teaching skills? Granger will have a fit and Pansy will skin you.”

Harry just looks at him, all green eyes and restless energy, and Blaise’s heart hurts.

“You’re going to be fine,” Blaise says quietly. “You know the spell well enough now, and you’re the best player on the Quidditch Team, and you _know_ it. You could probably play professionally, in the future.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, voice rising hysterically, “All I have to do is outmanoeuvre a _dragon_. Easy as pie, really.” 

Blaise can’t stand it anymore. He reaches out and yanks Harry forward, burying his nose in Harry’s hair and hugging him tightly. To his surprise, Harry responds immediately, arms coming up to hug Blaise’s waist fiercely. They don’t do this often – Blaise is tactile, and he’s always close by, always near if Harry needs him, but he’s not stupid, and he’s seen how Harry flinches away from contact sometimes. He never wants Harry to be uncomfortable.

“I wish I could do this for you, love,” Blaise murmurs, and Harry snorts into Blaise’s collar. He’s so _small_ , and the thought of him out there, facing down a creature ten times his size, makes Blaise feel sick.

“You must have a death wish then,” Harry mutters, his voice muffled.

Blaise opens his mouth to reply, and then a sharp flash and a loud noise catches him off-guard. He blinks away the brightness to see Rita Skeeter standing there, her sickly smile stretched gleefully over her face. Blaise almost growls – he knows Skeeter, has seen his mother entertain her at dinners and events, but he’s never had to deal with her personally before.

He has a feeling that he’s about to.

Harry scowls at her, mutters something about interfering old hags as he draws away, and Blaise wants to laugh and weep at the same time – he feels remarkably cold with Harry not in his arms, and he’s briefly tempted to seize the green quill floating beside Skeeter’s head and shove it up her ass.

“Lovely,” Skeeter says, adjusting her glasses, and then Dumbledore rounds the tent with a pile of important people who shoo the interfering old hag away, and Blaise watches Harry get swept up in the crowd. He sends one last reassuring look at Harry, who smiles weakly back before allowing himself to be hurried into the tent.

Hermione finds him, minutes later, still standing by the tree, looking a bit lost. She links their arms with a kind smile.

“C’mon, Zabini. Let’s go and watch him win.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter in the works, more drama! I hope you enjoyed this one, let me know what you think and if anything needs fixing, thank you so much! Love you all!


	4. Another First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry survives the first task, and there are good, happy, kissy things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah! Another chapter! This one is a little shorter because I wanted it to just be the one scene, on it's own, because it's important. I really hope you like it! Please let me know if you did!  
> Also, thank you so much! For all the kudos and the lovely comments, they really make my day to read :) Thank you!

Harry tries to make his face look as innocent as possible. He’s in pain, and he’s a bit numb with shock, but overall, he’s fine. He’s not burned to a crisp, anyway, which is what he was pretty much prepared for. He can tell that Madam Pomfrey doesn’t buy his innocence, but she rolls her eyes and lets his friends in anyway.

“Five minutes,” she warns him, with a narrow look, and then she bumbles off around the curtain to look at Cedric’s burned face.

Blaise reaches him first. Harry’s almost bowled over as the boy flings himself at Harry, muttering fiercely in his ear.

“Fucking _Merlin_ , Potter, almost gave me a _fucking_ heart attack, _fuck_.”

They don’t do this, usually. It’s not off bounds, but Harry’s childhood is far from happy, so he doesn’t really know what to do with hugs. Blaise usually finds other ways to keep in contact – today, though, is the second time they’ve hugged, and Harry is grateful for it, gripping the back of Blaise’s shoulders tiredly.

“Don’t make a scene, Blaise, it’s undignified,” Pansy says, from behind him, but Harry can see her chalk-white expression and wide eyes, and he knows her composure has slipped. He pretends not to notice, smiles weakly at her over Blaise’s shoulder as Blaise continues to swear violently in his ear.

Ron is next, surprisingly, beating Hermione to the punch. Quite literally.

“ _Ow_ , Ron, what the _hell_?”

Harry rubs his shoulder, glowering, as Ron draws back his fist. He looks a bit sick, his freckles standing out starkly against his skin.

“Frightened the bloody life out of me, mate,” Ron says. “Brilliant, though! I mean, it was _mad_ , but it was _brilliant_.”

Blaise draws back and hisses, “Don’t encourage him, it’s _Harry_!”

He flaps a hand at Harry’s face and Harry dodges it, just barely, rolling his eyes fondly. He has no intentions of fighting another dragon any time soon. Once was enough, thanks.

“I resent that,” Harry says, just as Hermione and Pansy swarm towards him. There’s lots of patting and tutting and squawking and Harry mutters uncertain reassurances, glares at Ron through a mass of bushy hair as the other boy snickers uncontrollably.

Hermione kisses him on the cheek, a little bit tearful.

Blaise keeps a hand on the back of Harry’s neck, the whole time, a warm, steady presence, but it doesn’t distract him from the heavy absence in the room.

“The next task better be nothing like this one, or I will kill something,” Pansy says viciously, forcing a cup of water into Harry’s hands. “Drink this, now. And put a jumper on, it’s freezing in here.”

“Pansy,” Harry says incredulously. “I just flew around Hogwarts at break-neck speed with a Hungarian Horntail at my back, breathing fire. If I was cold after all of that then I might actually consider letting Madam Pomfrey poke me with pins.”

“Bloody brilliant,” Ron whispers.

“No, she’s right,” Blaise says loudly. “Here, put this on. You could be going into shock.”

Harry yells out in protest, his voice muffled, as Blaise forcibly wraps his own scarf around Harry’s head. Harry tries to bat him away – the water goes everywhere, and Madam Pomfrey appears like she was summoned, hissing and shooing them away.

“For goodness _sake_ ,” she says, rolling her eyes. “The boy needs rest and quiet, Mr Zabini, not death by strangulation. Out, all of you! Go on, out!”

“We’ll get your score for you, Harry!” Ron yells, and then the tent flap shuts on Blaise’s mutinous expression.

There’s a quiet pause, and then Harry hears Cedric’s amused voice through the partition. It makes him jump; he’d forgotten anyone else was here.

“Nice friends you’ve got there, Potter.”

Harry snorts fondly. “Yeah, they’re a right bunch.”

“Drink that up, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey says, pushing another cup of water into his hands. Harry sighs and obediently takes a sip under her watchful gaze, only to put the cup down as soon as she turns around and bustles off. He’s not thirsty, and he’s tired, and there’s this heavy feeling in the bottom of his stomach, like he ate stones for breakfast. None of this is the same without a certain blonde here.

“Potter.”

Harry freezes. He’d know that voice anywhere.

The chair falls away as Harry shoots to his feet, whipping around. Draco is there, holding the back tent flap open in a white-knuckled grip. He’s deathly pale and he looks sicker than Harry feels, which is saying something. He’s rumpled too, hair sticking up like he’s been dragging his hands through it, bottom lip bright red like he’s bitten through it. The only emotion Harry can see in those grey, stormy eyes is fear, and then, as he scans Harry up and down, a touch of relief.

Harry clenches his hands into fists, shoves them in his pockets and watches Draco shift his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks.

Draco flounders for a minute, lost for words, and it startles Harry. He’s seen Draco flustered before, and tired and upset, even, but he’s always kept his composure before – Draco’s been brought up to be polite and cool, to be smooth and graceful, and a bit smug, at times, but right now, in front of Harry, he’s none of those things.

Draco trips – _trips_ – forward, and Harry blinks in surprise. He expected a stiff apology, a casual show of concern, perhaps. He didn’t expect this.

“That was horrible,” Draco says mutely. His eyes are dancing over Harry’s skin like he’s trying to memorise every inch of him, and Harry feels a dull flush creep up his neck and onto his cheeks. He clears his throat a little awkwardly and adjusts his glasses, fiddling with the arm.

“I mean it, Potter,” Draco continues, and now that Harry’s not looking at him, he can better hear the underlying fear in Draco’s tone. “That was horrible to watch. I hated – I didn’t know what was going to happen, and you just walked out into the arena, in front of a fucking dragon, like you didn’t have a clue what you were going to do. Merlin, you didn’t even have your _wand_ out. I nearly threw up on Goyle.”

“You would have known about the plan if you’d come to help us,” Harry points out, not quite ready to forgive him yet. “You probably would have come up with a better one.”

“Of course I would have,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. Then he hesitates, stares at Harry. “I owe you an apology.”

Harry arches an eyebrow. “Did that hurt to say?”

“ _Potter_.”

“No,” Harry says abruptly, shaking his head.

Draco looks momentarily surprised. “C’mon, Potter, you have to let me explain.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Harry mumbles. “I owe _you_ the apology.”

Draco gapes at him, like Harry’s just expressed a desire to marry Snape, adopt several children and move to the Bahamas to start a new life. “ _What_?”

“You were right,” Harry says dully, scuffing his shoe against the floor. “Not about me putting my name in the cup, or wanting the glory, but you were right about me dragging people into danger. People around me tend to get hurt. I shouldn’t have expected you to get up and help me just because I got into some kind of mess again. I mean, all the stuff in first year with the troll and Fluffy and then the basilisk in the chamber, and Sirius, even though he wasn’t really trying to hurt me. I guess I have a habit of jumping into things without thinking.”

“Potter,” Draco says bluntly, cutting him off. “Shut up.”

Harry tips his head up to stare at him mutinously. “I’m trying to say sorry here. Not about you not believing me, _that_ was a dick move, but you were right about the rest of it. I’m _sorry_ , alright?”

“Unbelievable,” Draco snorts. “Do you hear me, Potter? You’re _unbelievable_.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest angrily, but he doesn’t get a chance – Draco is marching forward, suddenly, his grey eyes flashing, and he gets a fistful of Harry’s robes and hauls him into a kiss.

Harry is almost too stunned to react. Draco’s mouth moves ever so slightly, and Harry’s eyes flutter shut automatically, and he gets with the programme quickly.

It’s soft, the kiss. If Harry were to guess, before this, he would have said that they would kiss like they fight, fast and hard and furious with each other, all hard, unyielding pressure, grabbing at clothes and pushing, always pushing each other. If he had to guess, he would have said that Draco would taste like mint or coffee, that he would smell like hair gel. He would have said that it was very unlikely, impossible in fact, that they would be kissing at all.

Honestly, Harry isn’t thinking about any of those things. He’s too busy being kissed senseless, dizzy with disbelief and confusion and this weird sensation in his chest, like butterflies are flittering through his veins. It feels like warmth unravelling through him, starting at his toes and trickling up to his fingers, which rest lightly on Draco’s waist, put there by accident, absently.

Draco’s hand cups Harry’s cheek, and the touch is so gentle that it’s startling. Harry’s heart stumbles slightly.  

It’s overwhelming, to say the least, which is why when Draco angles his head slightly, Harry wrenches back, gasping. He spends a split second standing there before he bends down and scoops up his bag and then sprints out of the back of the tent, leaving Draco standing there, panting hard and stunned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to say that I didn't end it like that for drama (mostly) but for realism. Harry has to figure some stuff out, after all, and people don't tend to just accept a kiss like that and immediately fall in love. Not yet, anyway ;)  
> I would also like to say thanks again for the wonderful response, and I hope this makes up for the lack of Drarry interaction in the last chapter! Thank you! Please let me know what you thought!


	5. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco have private freak-outs and Rita Skeeter proves again why she's an insufferable hag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Thank you so much for the lovely, wonderful comments and kudos, I'm so happy that people are enjoying this!This chapter is a bit of a filler, I guess, and then you get to see Severus Snape dancing in the next one ;) 
> 
> The only thing I can think of to warn for is that Harry has a lot of overwhelming feelings, is a bit panicky, thinks a lot about his sexuality. There's no panic attacks or bad thoughts, it's just a thought process, but I thought I'd mention it anyway. A character is also outed without their permission, something that I do not condone but put in because it's necessary and part of the plot, I just wanted to warn people just in case. That said, it is just a bit of fun, so I hope it's still a good read. 
> 
> Thank you, happy reading!

 

Harry finds a quiet, dusty classroom and sits heavily in one of the chairs, locking the door behind him with a mumbled spell. He doesn't want anyone to waltz in and ruin a perfectly good breakdown, he just needs a minute alone. His lips are still tingling from the surprising kiss that he and Draco had shared, and honestly? He's freaking out. Just a little bit, but enough to make him hide on the fourth floor with no intentions of speaking to anyone for at _least_ an hour or two, or maybe a year, he hasn’t decided yet. He puts his bag - heavy with the weight of the golden egg that he can’t actually believe he snagged - on the floor and then pillows his head on his arms, slumping against the nearest desk with a groan.

 _Merlin_ , it had been a good kiss. A fantastic kiss, actually, one that Harry probably isn't going to forget for as long as he lives. And that's the thing, see, because Harry's only ever kissed one person before, and that person had been Cho Chang, a pretty Ravenclaw girl that Harry had entertained a crush on for the whole of one month before realising that she really, _really_ wasn't the one for him. Not that there was anything wrong with Cho – it was just that everything had been a bit awkward and uncomfortable, and Harry had wanted to bury himself in a hole pretty much every time he opened his mouth in front of her.

The kiss with Cho had been kind of awful, too, now that he has something to compare it to.

She's dating Cedric Diggory, now, actually, if Harry remembers correctly. He thinks he’s seen them in Hogsmeade together, and they’re good for each other, nice and sweet and just _good_. Not the point though - _the_ _point_ , is that Harry's now kissed two people, one girl and one boy, and he knows which one he liked better, and he knows which one he'll remember in years to come, but is that because of the gender or because of _who_ he was kissing? Does it even _matter_?

"Of course it matters," Harry groans to himself, banging his head against his hands. "It matters if you're gay or not, you idiot."

The thing is, Harry's never thought about it before. He's had the odd, fleeting thought (mostly involving Blaise, if he's honest) but, he's never actually sat down and thought about it, about not being straight. He's always just assumed that he likes girls.

And he _does_ like girls. He likes their willowy figures and the way their hair smells, and he likes their soft skin and their perfume and their high-pitched voices. Girls are pretty and soft and sweet and confusing. He's had plenty of crushes before, and they've all been on girls. _Harry likes girls_. He can see himself getting married one day, buying a house and settling down with a woman, maybe having a few children. Not yet, obviously, but he knows he wants a family in the future. He knows he could start a family with a girl.  

But he also liked kissing Draco. Really liked it. _Loved_ it, in fact.

Tentatively, Harry shuts his eyes and tries to picture something different. He pictures holding hands with a guy. He thinks of strong hands that dwarf his, pictures prominent veins and callused fingertips. It's weird, at first, because it's just a picture in his head, but the thought doesn't make him run for cover. Of course, it's just hand-holding, but even that seems like a big achievement, considering he was straight about an hour or two ago.

And maybe he still is straight. Or maybe he’s gay, but that word seems overwhelming and large and suffocating, almost – what does it _mean_? Does he have to start talking differently, dressing differently? Does he have to go out and announce it, to make it a real thing?

“Bloody hell,” he mutters, rubbing at his closed eyes with the tips of his fingers until the stars burst against the blackness. He feels something akin to panic stirring in his gut, but mostly his brain is just a jumble of questions and confusion.

What if he’s gay and he doesn’t announce it? Is it like living with a secret? Does that mean he’s ashamed of himself, in some weird, roundabout way? _Is_ he ashamed of himself?

Harry blinks and sits upright. He’s never really thought about it – why would he? He hasn’t done anything that he feels real shame for, nothing that would mean hiding himself away and God, he’s only just kissed a guy for the first time and he’s already panicking about shame and telling people and people’s reactions. Harry winces. _People’s_ _reactions_. His _friends’_ reactions – how will Blaise take it; will he be uncomfortable? Will he stop calling Harry silly names and ruffling his hair? Despite how close they are, they’ve never talked about things like this, about liking people and sex and being gay or not gay. What about Ron? Hermione?

He feels bad even thinking about it, because they’re his friends, and they’re all good people, but he just doesn’t know. It’s all too confusing, and doubt is creeping in, and he can feel his breathing start to get a little shorter.

Maybe there’s something in between? Maybe it’s not as black and white as he thought it was.

Harry groans again. “Where’s Hermione when you need her?”

Hermione would know. Hermione would pull out a booklist a mile long littered with helpful references, but Harry doesn’t want to ask her. He’s having a breakdown, thank you very much, and a breakdown requires peace and quiet, but not the kind that comes with a _library_.

“Stop being stupid,” he tells himself firmly, although he sounds a lot less sure out loud.

He supposes there's an easy way to see if he's really attracted to guys as well as girls, or if it's just one guy in particular. He could always find someone and ask them to give him a hand, to see for real, to see if the kiss was a one-off thing, a fluke. Nothing too drastic, of course, maybe just a kiss on the cheek or something – but even that thought terrifies him. And isn’t supposed to be because you like a person, and not a gender? Would he even feel anything for a random boy?

He doesn’t know how this works. Nobody’s taught him how this works, or what’s okay and what’s not okay.

Harry opens his eyes again and then breathes out, nice and slow and purposeful. He feels jittery, like he's about to jump out of his skin, and he doesn't know who to go to, or what to do. The room feels a lot smaller than it did when he entered it, but he still doesn’t feel ready to leave. There’s a whole school full of people there that he doesn’t want to deal with.

Blaise is usually Harry's first port of call in any storm, but this storm is too big and bold. He knows that that wouldn't be fair. As much as he wants the other boy to hug him and calm him down and call him something sweet - and that's more because it's _Blaise_ and Harry trusts him more than anything else in the world - he also doesn't want to hurt his best friend, and he gets the feeling that this would definitely hurt Blaise, in the end.

Harry knows that people think he’s oblivious, after all, but he's not _entirely_ stupid. He knows there's something there, something between them that neither of them quite understand. He's just not going to go anywhere near it. He’s not going to ruin it. It’s a strong, good friendship, and Harry’s not going to ruin it by asking Blaise to hold his hand, or, Merlin, _kiss_ him.

So that leaves him with a handful of options, none of which are very appealing at the moment.

Maybe he doesn't have to do anything. Maybe he can just ignore the part of him that's pressing curiously and insistently for answers. Maybe he can just shove it all down in the dark and pretend it never happened.

But what about Draco?

Harry groans, and his head hits the desk again. Shit, he'd take the dragon over this any day.

 

*

 

When Draco was young, his father was sent to Askaban. Lucius Malfoy had expected everything of his son, and one of those expectations was for Draco to follow him down the dank path of dark, evil magic, the kind that consumed and devoured, the kind that had torn their family apart and gotten his father thrown in prison for life.

Lucius Malfoy had been able to hide away, at the end of Lord Voldemort’s rein. He had watched his master fall at the hands of a chubby baby boy, and he had fled, locked himself away in the manor with his wife, Narcissa, who went to great pains to hide him out of love and loyalty. But Lucius had given in to dark magic again and again, and although Narcissa loved him, she loved her son more, and she would do anything to ensure that he grew up safe and secure and loved.

She had turned her husband in, years later, when he started to impress his views upon their only son, and Lucius had gone to Azkaban. The divorce had been ugly, even with one half behind bars, and Draco had watched it all happen.

Draco wasn’t stupid, even at a young age. He was whiny and naïve, but he wasn’t stupid, and he knew the only reason his mother cried like she did was because of his father, and he knew, then, that he wasn’t going to be like Lucius. Maybe it would have been different, if Lucius had been around, if he had been there to whisper in Draco’s ear, but Draco had his mother, and he had Pansy and Greg and Blaise, and, most importantly, he _didn’t_ have Lucius, not anymore.

But it’s hard for boys to stop loving their fathers, sometimes, even when they do terrible things.

Draco had demanded to see him. Azkaban was not a place for young children - hell, it wasn't a place for _anybody_ \- but back then, when Draco wanted something, he usually got it. Besides, his mother hadn't wanted him to forget his father, not completely. Narcissa was still sympathetic, even if she didn't love the man anymore. After all, she had loved him once. There was too much between them to just cut him out of their lives, too much history, and Draco was a big part of that history, and so Draco had gone with her to see him.

He only went once.

He still remembers the fear he felt, clinging to the sides of that little toy boat, getting thrown about in a choppy sea as lightening cracked across the sky. He remembers the horror of the Dementors, the way they glided towards him greedily, sucking away his insides before the adults’ spells took form. He remembered the huddled form of his father, and he remembered being picked up and carried out just as quickly as they had gone in, shivering and pale.

He had been terrified.

But it was a long time ago, and all of that seems insignificant in the wake of the fear he's feeling right now.

Draco puts a hand to his mouth and runs his thumb along his bottom lip, where he can still taste hints of the lip balm that Pansy forces Harry to use reverently this time of year, when the weather grows cold and harsh and Harry tends to fall back on his habit of chewing his lip, something that still distracts Draco in the middle of class. He feels like his mouth is on fire, but the rest of him is numb with terror.

He's completely fucked it all up.

First, he had blown up at Harry after the whole Goblet of Fire incident, and the thing is, Draco didn't even mean half the shit that fell out of his mouth. He wasn't even angry, really, not for the reasons that Harry probably thought. He had been afraid, mostly.

Afraid because if Harry hadn't put his name in the goblet, like Draco secretly knew he hadn't, deep down, then that meant that someone else had done it without him knowing, and that very likely meant that someone was trying to kill Harry, or at least hurt him. And it had to be a pretty powerful person, to fool an object like the Goblet of Fire, and that was something that Draco really hadn't wanted to think about.

So he hadn't thought about it. Instead, he had fallen back on the only alternative option, which was that Harry really had put his name in the Goblet (even though, once again, Draco knew he hadn't) and the whole pretence had sparked a bonfire of anger and fear inside Draco's chest, something that he hadn't been able to ignore, something that had long been simmering beneath the surface.

He finishes explaining this to Pansy and then stops pacing, suddenly exhausted.

"That explains why you decided to stupidly remove yourself from all of this," Pansy says, waving a hand around to encompass Harry and the tournament and Draco's raging crush. "Although, I personally still think you’re an idiot for that. But regardless, it still doesn't explain why you just burst in here like your arse was on fire and kicked Millie and Daphne out. Daphne was just about to paint my nails, and Millie had some delicious gossip on that Hufflepuff prude, Ernie Macmillan? You know the one I mean, with the –”

"I kissed Harry," Draco blurts out.

Pansy comes to an abrupt stop, her mouth hanging open, her fingers paused mid-flick.

"Pardon?"

It's the most discomposed that Pansy's been in years, which prompts a slightly hysterical laugh from Draco.

"I kissed Harry," Draco says again, a little miserably. "And he kissed me back, and then he ran away."

"Harry Potter?"

Draco glares at her. "How many other Harry's am I currently in love with?"

“I’m just making sure, don’t be such a child.” Pansy fixes him with a curious stare. "You know, you're a lot more comfortable saying _that_ than you were before. You wouldn't even acknowledge your crush a few days ago, and now you're saying you love him, and apparently _kissing_ him."

Draco shrugs one shoulder and collapses into Pansy's bed, careful not to sit on any of the little bottles of nail varnish.

"Draco, if you don't talk, I can't help. Did he say anything? Do you _want_ him to kiss you back? Do you want to be _together_? Does anyone else know? Why the hell did you kiss him in the first place?"

She reaches over and shoves a bottle of nail polish into his hands, places her feet in his lap. Draco sighs, unscrews the lid, and starts applying plum-coloured polish in small, practiced strokes. This is familiar, and it relaxes something inside of him, makes him feel at home.

"Draco, talk, before I start flinging curses."

"Your Slytherin is showing," Draco mutters, and then hastily dodges out of the way. Blue light shoots past his ear and hits a pot plant on the dresser, turning it a violent shade of red. He stares at it, wide-eyed, and then looks back at Pansy, who’s still pointing her wand in his direction.

“The next one won’t miss,” Pansy promises. “You’ll have green hair for a month.”

“That’s a first year curse,” Draco says mulishly.

“Which is precisely why it’s so insulting,” Pansy says. “Now, _talk_.”

“What do you want me to say?” Draco says, spreading his hands. “He ran away, Pansy. He _sprinted_ out of that tent. I think that pretty much spells out the future of our relationship right there, doesn’t it?”

He carefully mops up a bit of nail varnish whilst Pansy prays for strength.

“You kissed him,” Pansy says, as patiently as she can manage. “He kissed you back. That’s a good start, but Draco, darling, you’ve known how much you liked him since, what, first year?”

“Second,” Draco corrects her grumpily.

Pansy ignores him. “You’ve liked him since first year, and you’ve known about that, and you’ve already entertained me with your gay crisis, but I’m pretty sure Harry’s under the impression that he’s as straight as a needle. A very, _very_ straight needle. We’ve never talked about it, so I might be wrong, but I can see why he ran.”

“I can’t,” Draco says, even though he can, and he abandons the nail varnish in favour of collapsing face-first into Pansy’s bedspread. Pansy clucks at him, pats the back of his head and then runs her fingers through her hair.

“He panicked,” she says softly. “Just like you would have, in his shoes. I’m not saying it wasn’t a little bit insensitive, or that your squishy feelings aren’t allowed to be hurt –”

Draco spits out a mouthful of quilt cover and glares at her.

“–but just give him some time, and he’ll come around. At the very least, he’ll come and talk to you. It’s Harry, he’s not going to just leave you wondering. He’s not cruel. Just wait, and it’ll sort itself out, and he’ll come after you.”

“Does he have to?” Draco whines. “Can’t you just bury me and be done with it?”

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Daphne! Milly! You can come back now.”

There’s a creak as the door opens and Daphne Greengrass crosses the room smoothly, followed by Millicent, whose glasses are slightly askew. Millicent bypasses them to sit on a cushion on the floor, reaching for a book that Draco forced her to abandon when he ran in shrieking earlier. Daphne settles herself on the bed and pokes Draco in the shoulder with a look of fond disdain.

“Has he finished whining about how pretty Potter’s face is and how much his eyes sparkle and how the sun shines out of his arse yet?” Daphne asks, perusing the bottles of nail varnish with a disinterested look.

Draco lifts his head to glare warningly at Pansy, who smiles slyly.

“Don’t you da–”

“Draco kissed Harry.”

“ _What_?”

“Finally.”

“Pansy!”

 

*

 

Harry pushes open the door to the Great Hall the morning after the First Task and freezes on the first step when everyone goes completely silent, heads swivelling to stare at him. Harry blinks at the sea of upturned faces and feels a flicker of fear, although he can’t say why. He glances at the Slytherin table and frowns in surprise; his friends are conspicuously absent, although Daphne gives him a friendly little wave and a sharp look.

One of the Weasley twins lets out a loud wolf-whistle, shouts “Looking good, Angelina,” and Harry has never been more grateful as there’s a shriek and a bang from the Gryffindor table, and everyone starts snickering, attention diverted.

Harry turns in time to see Hermione and Ron clambering up the steps towards him. Ron mumbles something incoherent around the piece of toast between his teeth and Hermione snags Harry’s elbow and leads them out of the hall.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks, but he doesn’t get a reply. Hermione continues to steer him until they’re out in the courtyard, tucked up behind a pillar and doing their best to ignore the grey, drizzly weather.

Harry grimaces. “I was actually looking forward to breakfast, you know. It’s freezing out here.”

Hermione frowns for a moment and then waves her wand over Harry’s hands. A ball of blue flames appear in his palms, hot but not painfully so, and Harry clutches it gratefully, laughs at Ron’s generous offer of a half-eaten bit of toast and then shrugs, accepting it.

“Boys,” Hermione says, wrinkling her nose. “No sense of hygiene.”

“Why are we out here?” Harry asks hastily, before Ron can spark up an argument. “I fell asleep in the kitchens, so I didn’t see anyone this morning, but they’re usually in the hall by now.”

He had gone down to the kitchens late last night as a way of putting off returning to the dormitory, a fact which he knows Blaise will be pissed about, and he had ended up falling asleep among the gaggle of elves and the bustle of late-night cooking, head pillowed on his arms.

“Well, there was a bit of an incident this morning,” Hermione says quietly, fidgeting. She glances helplessly at Ron, who rolls his eyes and starts to talk, a little uncomfortably.

“Basically, Malfoy and Zabini had a bit of an uproar over something that came out in The Daily Prophet,” Ron says grimly. “I don’t read that rag, but Hermione does.”

Dread settles in Harry’s stomach, cold and heavy. “What did it say?”

Hermione hesitates, and then reaches into her bag and unfolds a copy of The Daily Prophet. “It’s Rita Skeeter, so there aren’t any facts or figures in this, just the pictures, but nobody cares. She can make up a load of nonsense and people will still eat it up with a spoon. Even Ron’s mum believes Skeeter.”

Ron grimaces. “Yeah, but she likes Lockhart, so there’s no accounting for taste, is there?”

Harry nods agreeably, swallows the last of the toast and then takes the paper off of Hermione.

_THE BOY WHO LIVED: GAY?_

The title sends a wave of nausea rocketing through Harry, and he grips the edges of the newspaper so hard that the paper starts to rip. He swallows back his sickness and reads through the article, picking out works like  _scandalous_ and _sexuality_ and _Slytherin_ and _corruption._ It’s the pictures that really cinch it, though, that really make him feel ill.

One of Harry and Blaise hugging on a loop takes up a good half of the page; the picture is clearly an intimate moment, although Harry wants to rip it up and shout that Blaise is his best friend, that he was _comforting_ him, that it was a private moment and Skeeter had no right to be there, but he knows it’ll do no good, even if everyone in the whole world heard him.

The second picture is a little more damning, although it’s also a bit grainy and blurry, like it was taken from too far away and hurriedly. However, despite the bad quality, it’s very much still obvious that Harry’s kissing someone, even if that someone has his back to the camera. You can't tell that it's Draco, but Harry thinks it'll be pretty obvious now, since he and Blaise apparently yelled at each other in front of the entire population of the school.

Harry groans, screws the paper up and shoves it back into Hermione’s waiting hands. He feels shaky and sick as he thinks of all the people that are going to see this, all of the people that are going to _know_. Harry hasn't even had time to get his head around this yet, and now it's out there for the whole world to see.

“There really is no privacy in this school,” Harry mumbles. He doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to see disgust or anger in his friends’ eyes, so he ducks his head.

Hermione smacks him over the head with the crumpled newspaper, and Harry jerks upright, wide-eyed.

“Harry Potter, you better not be thinking about anything other than how supportive Ron and I are going to be throughout this, do you understand me? You’d have to do some very questionable things before we stopped being your friends, and this isn’t even anywhere near the list. It’s perfectly fine to be gay, it’s _normal_ , even, and we will be there no matter what. We're still your friends, and we still love you."

Hermione looks a little tearful by the end of it, but no less stern, and Harry's reminded again why he's friends with Ron and Hermione. He reaches forward awkwardly to pat her on the shoulder, glaring at Ron when he sniggers into his hand.

“I know, Hermione, and I’m grateful,” Harry says, feeling warm all over, “but I don’t really know what I am? I guess I need to look into it a little.”

Hermione’s eyes light up, and she starts to back away. “Oh, this is excellent. Meet me in the library, both of you. I can look into ways to get back at that awful _cow,_ Rita Skeeter, and I have a few ideas about books that might be helpful, Harry.”

“Hermione,” Harry says weakly, but she’s already racing up the steps, beam in place.

“Mental, that one,” Ron says fondly. “So, you and Malfoy, then?”

“Apparently,” Harry mumbles, shooting Ron a helpless look. “Any advice?”

Ron holds his hands up in alarm. “Not unless you want him to pack his bags and move to Australia. Mum says I have all the tact of a dead hippo. Sorry, mate, you’d be better off asking Hermione.”

Harry snorts, and then side-eyes Ron. “You sure you don’t have a problem with this? ‘Cause I’d understand if you did.”

Ron shrugs one shoulder in a forcibly casual move, and then wraps his other arm around Harry, dragging him back towards the Castle. “Nah, I don’t care if you like blokes. I don’t get why you picked that blonde bastard, of all people, but if you’re sure, I’m with you, Harry. We all are.”

Harry grins, elbows Ron in the side. “Thanks, mate.”

Ron elbows him back and then darts away, grinning. “No problem. Want me to tell you about the glory that was Parkinson dragging Zabini and Malfoy out of the Great Hall by their ears?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this okay? Hope you all liked it! Much love, please leave a comment or a kudos to let me know what you think :) Thank you! Once again, find me @thealmostrhetoricalquestion on tumblr :)


	6. Dancing Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape does the waltz, there are many conversations, a letter from Sirius, and Draco and Harry finally talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Another chapter. Mostly just conversations, the next chapter will be full of plot, I promise. And it will also include Sirius and Remus! Still, I hope you like this chapter, and thank you very much for all the really kind, lovely comments! I love reading your thoughts, guys! Thank you!

Pansy shoves Blaise through a tapestry and then sweeps it back, still dragging Draco in by his ear. They end up standing in a cramped, dusty space that looks like it leads to a set of stone stairs. Pansy wrinkles her nose at the dust and then frowns at a grumbling portrait on the wall, who takes one look at her face and flees, diving out of the frame.

“If this messes up my robes then you’re going to be sorry,” Blaise says, frowning as he wraps his arms around his chest.

Draco rubs at his ear, which has turned red beneath the pinch of Pansy’s fingers, and says, “Same goes for my hair. What was _that_ for?”

“You know what that was for,” Pansy hisses. She’s been angry before, but this takes the cake. She’s angry for Harry, who didn’t ask for this, and she’s angry at her friends, who are being idiots, and she’s angry at Rita for being a conniving little bitch, and she wants to march around the school until she finds Granger, who has a surprisingly vindictive side to her.

Draco looks briefly guilty, and then a wall drops down over his expression and he lounges back against the stone wall, examining his fingers.

“This is his fault,” Blaise says, rolling his eyes. “If he hadn’t been such an ass then none of this would have happened. And he’s the one who started shouting at breakfast.”

Pansy reaches forward and cuffs Blaise around the head sharply.

“You both started shouting,” Pansy snaps. “Look, I’m going to say this once, and you’re both going to listen and then you’re going to act like adults, rather than moronic two year olds.”

“Pansy, this really isn’t any of your business,” Draco drawls, narrowing his eyes at Blaise. “This is between us and Harry.”

Pansy actually shrieks, a little high-pitched noise that makes both boys wince. She wants to rip her own, beautifully glossy hair out and bash both of their heads together, but she can't. She’s never been a particularly violent person; words are her weapon. A good threat can do a lot more than a swift kick will ever do.

“I have three photo albums at home,” Pansy announces, taking pleasure in the way they both freeze. “Very full, very dangerous photo albums that all contain pictures of us, although mainly you two. And I can think of at least six photos off of the top of my head from the first album alone that you’d both hate to find blown up and pasted on every inch of the Great Hall.”

“Are you blackmailing us?” Blaise demands, looking impressed.

“That’s the Pansy we know and love,” Draco says fondly.

Pansy rolls her eyes and then collapses back against the wall with a huge sigh. She feels strangely fragile, like a line pulled taut, waiting to snap. She sniffs, wipes her eyes carefully, and then stares at the floor for a minute.

“Pans?” Draco asks uncertainly.

“This is shit,” Pansy says, and to her horror, her voice wavers.

“Please don’t cry,” Draco says, panicking slightly. “I never know what to do when you cry. Do you want a paper bag?”

“Stop being so straight,” Blaise hisses, slapping Draco on the shoulder. Then he reaches out and yanks Pansy into a hug, resting his chin on top of her head. Draco slaps Blaise back and then pats her awkwardly on the shoulder, and Pansy ducks out of Blaise’s grip and hugs Draco, too. After a moment, he hugs her back, hard.

“Stop being so stupid, both of you,” Pansy says, voice muffled by Draco’s shirt. “Draco, you wouldn’t even have outed yourself if you’d kept quiet. Nobody could tell who the guy in the picture was, it was all blurry and it was taken from the back, you idiot.”

“I panicked,” Draco admits, after a beat. “I didn’t know anyone had spotted us. The only person I can think of that might have heard us is that Diggory bloke, but I can’t see him doing this. Must have been Skeeter, sneaking around, but it was supposed to be a private moment, and I’m not _out_ , not properly. I panicked.”

“You got scared,” Pansy says.

Draco grumbles an incoherent agreement. “And I might have been a bit jealous, too.”

He glances at Blaise over Pansy’s head, who grimaces.

“I might also, possibly, have been suffering from the green monster of jealousy,” Blaise says. “ _Possibly_. But I’m not with Harry, and I’m not _in_ love with Harry. We were just hugging. He was pretty wound up about the task, and I don’t actually need an excuse to hug my best friend, but there you go.”

Draco does this jerky shoulder thing and Pansy draws back, sighing and murmuring a spell to fix her make-up. “Your mum will be alright with this, won’t she Draco?”

“Yeah, she already knows. I’ll probably get a letter and a box of sweets tomorrow.” Draco snorts. “I don’t even know if _Harry’s_ alright with this. He did just get outed to the school, but I don’t even know if he’s gay or not.”

Blaise frowns. “He doesn’t have to be gay to like guys. He might be bisexual, or pansexual, idiot. There are lots of things he could be, and we should probably ask him instead of gossiping about it.”

“Or he could be trying to work things out,” says Hermione, appearing in the doorway, pushing open the tapestry to let in a stream of bright light. “Give him some time. Ron’s with him, and he seems fine about the newspaper. Annoyed, but fine.”

“I’m annoyed too,” Pansy says, stepping gracefully out of the cramped space. “Any ideas on what we can do to that Skeeter woman? You’re always surprisingly evil when it comes to this sort of thing, and I could do with a sidekick.”

Hermione shoots her an amused glance, huffs a little. “Why am I the sidekick?”

“You could always fight for it,” Blaise suggests, winking as he adjusts his hair. “Wrestle for the title, maybe?”

Pansy shares a glance with Hermione that quite plainly says _boys_ , and honestly, if she weren’t friends with these idiots, she probably would have killed them all in First Year and enjoyed a quiet, peaceful life at Hogwarts. As it is, though, she’s stuck with two dramatic, sexually ambiguous nerds, one ginger, and Harry Potter, the boy who lived to be a right pain in the ass.

She supposes it’s not all bad.

* 

The note for the Yule Ball goes up on the noticeboards that weekend, and it’s not quite as horrible once he remembers that Blaise can actually dance, and might deign to teach him. The Second Task is looming closer and closer, and all Harry’s done is open the egg and then throw it across the room with a yelp of horror when it emitted a ghastly shriek. He reasons, though, that he can work on it over Christmas, and be perfectly ready in time for the Second Task, at the end of January.

If someone had told Harry that this year he’d be treated to the sight of Severus Snape, one of the most feared and hated Hogwarts professors, waltzing stiffly around a large classroom with his arms just barely around Blaise Zabini, Harry probably would have steered them in the direction of Madam Pomfrey and then demanded for someone to perform a memory spell on him. As it is, Harry’s currently hunched down in his seat, knuckles stuffed in his mouth to keep the laughter from spilling out.

Every time Snape turns, Harry gets a glimpse of Blaise’s wide, terrified eyes, and every time Blaise turns, Harry is confronted by Snape’s increasingly murderous expression, and it’s enough to send him into a fit if silent hysterical laughter. Muffled giggles ripple through the classroom as Blaise, usually graceful, treads on the end of Snape’s robes, sending them both stumbling. Blaise mouths help me over Snape’s shoulder and Harry almost swallows his fist in an attempt to keep quiet. Draco’s sat in front of him, on the lower level of seats, and his shoulders are shaking so forcibly that Harry’s kind of afraid that he’s having a fit.

Harry gets lost for a moment, staring at the back of Draco’s head and resisting the surprising urge to run his hand through the soft blonde hair.

The record player creaks to a stop, and Harry watches Filch kick it to make it work again, before Snape glares him into stopping.

“That’s enough,” Snape says, releasing Blaise and stepping back. Blaise practically sprints away and clambers up the seats to crush himself next to Harry, who’s still laughing.

“I’m sure I don’t need to explain what will happen should anyone be caught displaying themselves in an inappropriate manner come the Yule Ball,” Snape sneers. “I will happily hand out detentions all of the Christmas break, if necessary. Class dismissed.”

Blaise groans in relief, dropping his head onto Harry’s shoulder. Snape is the first to leave, in a rush of billowing black robes, sparing a glare for Harry, as usual. They don’t get along, never have, but Snape doesn’t actively do anything except set Harry detentions for minor infractions.

“This ball better be worth all of that,” Blaise says, in disgust, as they exit the class. Draco and Pansy pull ahead of them, and Harry keeps his eyes on the back of Draco’s head. He wants to talk to him, wants to have a normal conversation with his friend, but every time he tries, he ends up chickening out. Then again, Draco hasn’t tried to talk to Harry either. Blaise, at least, apologised for making a scene in the Hall, after the article came out. Not that Harry wants an apology; he just wants Draco to look at him.

They pile into the Great Hall for lunch, still chatting about the Yule Ball. Harry doesn’t have a date, and probably won’t have one, not with someone who he actually wants to go with. He thought about just not going, but Blaise glared him down and eventually Harry agreed to go, if only because he doesn’t want Blaise to get too drunk and make out with a statue or something.

Hedwig lands beside Harry’s pumpkin juice with an important ruffle of her white feathers. Harry lets her nip at his fingers fondly as he hastily unties the letter attached to her leg. Hedwig snaps her beak at him gently and then hops over to Draco instead of staying beside Harry, purposely treading on the rim of Blaise’s bowl so that cereal and milk spills over the table. Blaise mumbles a curse at her around his spoon, and then cleans the mess up with a spell.

“Traitor,” Harry says bitterly, watching Hedwig cuddle up to Draco, who aims a smug smile down the table. The smile falters after a moment, and their group goes oddly quiet.

It’s been a strange few days.

“You’re just jealous, Potter, because she loves me more than you.” Draco’s voice is deceptively light and casual, but the way he jerks his gaze away, focusing intently on Hedwig as he strokes her gently, speaks volumes. Harry’s a little ashamed to say that they haven’t spoken about the kiss they shared, not at all. They also haven’t spoken about the Daily Prophet, and Rita Skeeter’s rumour, or the way that people stare at them whenever they’re in the same room together. Harry’s a little bit more used to the stares than Draco, and he wishes he felt brave enough to comfort Draco over it, or at least ask him how he’s coping, but that would lead to a real conversation, and Harry still doesn’t know how to deal with that.

He doesn’t want to open his mouth on the subject until he knows he has the words that won’t hurt anyone. He’d shared that thought with Hermione during a forced study session in the library, and she had looked at him thoughtfully before declaring that it was a very un-Harry-like thing to do, and that she was proud, but that he should probably try and figure it all out soon so that Draco could stop looking like a sad little blonde ghost, mooning around the castle.

Hedwig deigns them another five minutes of her time before she takes off, making sure to cuff Harry over the head with her wing and snatch up one of Pansy’s biscuits before she leaves. Pansy makes a rude gesture at Hedwig’s retreating form – the two have never really gotten along, something that Harry finds endlessly amusing.

“You really shouldn’t have that much hatred for a bird,” Harry says, and Pansy bites into her last biscuit viciously.

“She’s not a bird. She’s the devil in a bird’s body. Who’s the letter from?” She leans forward to read it, and Harry holds it up out of reach so that she can’t get it, only for Blaise to snatch it out of his hands and examine it critically.

“The return address says Grimmauld Place,” Blaise says, with a hint of glee. “Could this be your delicious Godfather writing to you in a time of crisis?”

Harry’s stomach flips over. He can’t believe that he’s forgotten about Sirius and Remus; he’s been so busy worrying about his friends and the school and ordinary people out in the world, that he’s forgotten about how Sirius might react.

Uneasily, he rolls his eyes and snatches the letter back. “There’s no privacy here, I should have been in Hufflepuff. And stop calling Sirius delicious, you know I hate it when you do that. He’s old enough to be your father.”

“Well, age is half of the appeal,” Blaise explains patiently, ignoring Harry’s irritated look. “Age equals experience, Harry dear. And experience plus _that_ body equals a grand old time.”

“I could eat him up with a spoon,” Pansy agrees.

“I hate you,” Harry says blankly, standing up. He downs the rest of his pumpkin juice and then snatches up his bag, tucking the letter into his pocket.

“Depriving us of your lovely presence so soon?” Blaise asks, with an exaggerated frown.

“It’s a crime, I know,” Harry says, and then he clambers off of the bench and waves at his friends. “I’ll catch you in class.”

He hesitates beside Draco, who freezes, looking up tentatively. “Something on your mind, Potter?”

Harry opens his mouth to say something, anything, and he can feel the eyes of everyone in the Hall on them, but eventually he just nods awkwardly and all but runs from the room, face turning red. He doesn’t stop running until he reaches the owlery, where Hedwig flies down from her perch and nibbles his ear.

He almost doesn’t want to open the letter. What if it’s something awful? What if Sirius saw the Daily Prophet and decided Harry was something disgusting, a freak, like Uncle Vernon always said he was? He tries to steady his breathing, remembering that it’s Sirius, and Remus, and honestly, it’s very unlikely that they’ll hate him for this, but it’s hard to make himself believe it.

He ends up ripping the letter open, like a plaster, trying to get it done quickly. There’s no greeting, which is just so _Sirius_ that Harry shakes his head fondly and grins as he leans back against the nearest nesting box.

_So, we read the paper. Well, actually, Moony read the paper because Moony’s an old man that does old man stuff like reading newspapers, rather than fun stuff like finding ways to doodle on all the stuffy old portraits in this house. My mother is now sporting a rather delightful moustache, and it pains me to say that it suits her._

Harry laughs; he can’t wait to see that, when he finally gets to visit Grimmauld Place. He’s only there been there two times; once was just after Sirius settled down after the hearing, and the second time was when Remus Lupin (otherwise known as Moony) had been forced to quit his job as Defence Against the Dark Art’s teacher last year, after his condition came to light, and Sirius had pestered him into moving in with him.

_But that wasn’t the point. Point is, Moony read the paper and choked on his coffee (black, because once again, Moony is an old man) and then I read the paper under duress and decided to write to you immediately. Harry, you’re coming home for Christmas, right? I know technically the Dursley’s are still your home, but you’re always welcome here, and we can’t wait to see you. No, it’s not Moony writing, although he’s looking over my shoulder disapprovingly right now, I’ve just decided to be boring and sentimental for a moment. Forgive an old man and spend a few days here? I know you’ve got the Yule Ball to deal with, but we can sort something out._

Harry feels a rush of longing as he reads the words. Aunt Petunia might be his mother’s real sister, but he knows that Sirius was also his father’s real brother, in all of the ways that counted. And Sirius felt like family, and so did Remus, and even though Grimmauld Place would probably be dark and dingy, he knew it would feel a thousand times better than staying here over Christmas, whilst all his friends went home. He loves Hogwarts, and it feels like home, but so does his Godfather. They write to each other frequently, and sometimes Sirius shoves his head through the floo and catches up with him, and Harry still can’t believe that he was stupid enough to forget about him.

_Harry, you know you can tell us anything, right? And whatever it is, we won’t be ashamed, or upset. Unless you’ve decided to marry Snivellus Snape. Then I’ll be disappointed. Moony just told me off, but he looked really sick when he was doing it, so I know he agrees. Just, don’t worry about anything, and we’ll see you soon, yeah?_

_(We’re proud of you, Harry. It won’t be Christmas without you. – Remus.)_

_Sirius._

Harry sits down on the window sill with his heart in his throat, grinning hard. Moments ago, everything had felt complicated and terrifying, but right now, there’s a lightness in his chest. He can deal with this. Everything’s going to be fine.

He reads the letter a few more times, committing it to memory, and then he sits and pens out a short, grateful reply, confirming that yes, he will be home for Christmas, and no, he can’t wait. He watches Hedwig until she’s nothing but a speck of snow on the dull horizon, and then he stays where he is for a moment longer, revelling in the quiet and the sense of peace that fills him.

Things will be alright.

*

Harry catches Draco just before he leaves for Christmas break.

“I wanted to say sorry,” Harry says immediately, catching hold of Draco’s sleeve before the other boy can go down into the common room. Both of their bags have already been transported to the fireplaces, and Blaise left a day earlier, after a large, dramatic farewell in the Entrance Hall where he embarrassed Harry by clutching hold of Harry and declaring that he wouldn’t survive the week without him. He even threw in a few fake sobs, to round it all off nicely. Fred and George had been nearby, watching and cackling, and Harry knows he won’t escape their teasing, but he’s done a pretty good job of it so far.

Draco rolls his eyes. “The last time you apologised, you didn’t really approve of my methods of shutting you up.”

Harry’s brain goes blank as he thinks of their kiss. He shakes himself, and then slips his hand down from Draco’s sleeve to wrap around his wrist. Draco’s eyes widen, and he blinks at their hands, and then up at Harry.

“This isn’t pity, is it?” Draco narrows his eyes.

Harry snorts. “ _Please_.”

There’s colour high in Draco’s cheeks, and it just keeps getting brighter the longer Harry stares at him. The longer he stares, the brighter it gets, and the more Harry wishes he were brave enough to kiss him, again, here and now. There’s nobody in the room, nobody at all, and the risk of anyone walking in is low. He can feel himself start to sway, and then Draco clears his throat with a pointed look, and the spell is broken.

“It’s not pity,” Harry rushes to clarify. “It’s just an apology. For avoiding you, and what happened.”

Draco arches an eyebrow. “You can say the word _kiss_ , you know. Nothing’s going to explode if you do. Besides, the whole school already knows about it, so there’s no point in acting like it’s still a secret.”

“My Godfather knows,” Harry says slowly. “I’m going to see him today. He – I think he knows about stuff like this, or something similar, maybe. I don’t know. But I just want someone to talk to, and then. Then I promise, we’ll talk when I get back. If you still want to.”

Draco’s mouth drops open slightly. “You …” He swallows dryly, licks his lips. “I didn’t realise that you were considering this.”

Harry feels his eyes bulge slightly. “You thought I was just going to avoid you forever?”

Draco doesn’t say anything, but Harry can tell he’s stunned.

“I kissed you back,” Harry says, a little awkwardly, a little too quietly. “I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t want to. I’m just trying to figure some things out, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Draco says, a bit blankly. “That’s … okay.”

“I’ll see you when we get back?”

“Okay.”

Harry’s mouth twitches. “Okay.”

Draco narrows his eyes. “Piss off, Potter. I’m going home now, because I can’t decide whether I want to punch you or kiss you.”

He leaves with a shit-eating grin still pasted across his smug face, and Harry’s left standing in the dormitory with wide eyes and a somewhat poleaxed expression.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand, Christmas Break! And then the Yule Ball, and fluff, I promise! Thanks so much for sticking with the story, I won't take too long before I upload the next one! Thanks so much, hope you enjoyed it! Leave a comment or a kudos, very appreciated :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Didn’t fool McGonagall,” Lupin mutters ruefully.  
> “Nothing fools McGonagall,” Harry adds. “Not even an invisibility cloak.”  
> “Should have used that when you were kissing Malfoy,” Sirius says, grinning, and then his expression freezes. Lupin lets out a frustrated sigh, rubbing at his temples, and Sirius winces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Thanks for all the love and comments, if there's any questions that I didn't answer in this chapter, they will be answered in the next, I promise :) I've done something weird with the POV for the next chapter, which I'll explain next time. Seriously though, thanks for your lovely responses, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Sirius wraps Harry in a fierce hug as soon as he tumbles out of the fireplace, yanking him up off of the hearth rug and crushing him against his chest. Harry beams against Sirius’s shoulder and hugs him back equally as hard. They’re almost the same height now, and Harry’s still got a good year’s worth of growth left in him yet. He’ll never be as tall as Ron or the rest of the Weasley’s, but he might beat his Godfather one day.

“Good to have you back, Harry,” Sirius says, pulling away so that he can examine Harry critically, his dark eyes taking in every inch of him in a manner of seconds. Harry always feels oddly looked through when Sirius does this, but he doesn’t mind.

“Good to be back,” Harry says, still grinning. There’s a noise as his trunk falls over, topping out of the fireplace, and Harry turns round to haul it upright, dusting ash off of his clothes as he does. He’s wearing jeans and an old ratty t-shirt that Blaise and Draco both hate, but Harry doesn’t care because it’s one of the few pieces of clothes that was given to him new. Dudley didn’t even need to try it on before he realised it was too small, and it had been grudgingly thrown at Harry, with the tags still on.

“Remus is in the study, as usual,” Sirius says, rolling his eyes fondly. “I told him you would be arriving soon, and he was supposed to get his nose out of the books and come and greet you!”

He yells the last bit and Harry smiles as an answering thump sounds from down the hall. Sirius hooks an arm around Harry’s shoulder and drags him down the hall, whistling cheerfully all the while. Harry sees several rather put-out portraits with pencilled-on beards and moustaches and extravagant earrings lining the walls. The hat stand drops into a bow as they walk past it, sweeping off a large red Christmas hat, and from one of the rooms pours a selection of Christmas music. Harry pauses to listen, and isn’t surprised to find that a lot of the words have been magically substituted for rude ones.

The study is warm from the heat of the fire roaring in the grate, and candles float in the corners of the room, bathing everything in a golden glow. It smells like old parchment and scorchscotch, the good stuff that Sirius keeps in a crystal bottle on one of the side tables.

Remus Lupin is frowning down at something on a desk, eyebrows scrunched up. He looks better than he did the last time that Harry saw him – jobless, homeless, and sleeping on Sirius’s couch. Sirius was having none of that, naturally, and now Remus sleeps here, but in a bed, with a room of his own. He looks tired, from the transformations, but he looks better.

“Professor Lupin?” Harry asks, and Sirius snorts.

“You can call him Remus, Harry,” Sirius says, just as Lupin looks up, smiling kindly. “He won’t bite. It’s not the full moon for another few weeks yet.”

“Old habits die hard,” Lupin says, and Harry agrees with a grin. “It’s good to see you, Harry. How was the trip?”

Harry grimaces. “I still prefer a broom, or a portkey.”

“That’s my Godson,” Sirius says happily, ruffling his hair. “C’mon, let’s get you set up. Moony, leave that be, you can frown at it later.”

Lupin closes the book, but not before rolling his eyes.

“What is it?” Harry asks, curiosity peaked.

“Boring old rubbish,” Sirius says, and Lupin sighs, leads them both from the room with a hand on each of their shoulders.

“We have been decluttering the house,” Lupin explains, as they climb the stairs. “The place is riddled with dark magic and dangerous artifacts, and we wanted to get rid of as much as possible before the new year. We found the secret old Black library whilst we were cleaning out the study. It’s a pretty extensive collection, and some of the books are really rare, but there’s a spell on almost all of them that makes the text unreadable.”

“Thing is,” Sirius adds, directing Harry’s trunk around the corner with a flick of his wrist, “most of those books could come in handy, for capturing dark wizards and undoing old, deadly spells. Some people in our circle of friends believe that there’s a war coming, and whether or not you agree, it can’t be argued that it’s not a bad idea to be prepared. These books would help us with that.”

A war. Harry shivers, flinches as pain flares in his forehead, starting at the bottom of his scar and zig-zagging up. He brushes a hand over it; it’s cool to the touch, and he doesn’t miss the way that Lupin and Sirius glance at each other, worriedly, so he hastily ruffles his fringe and drops his hand.

“Harry,” Lupin begins hesitantly, but Harry cuts over him.

“Is it a language? The spell on the books, does it turn it into a different language?”

Another shared glance, and then a shrug from Sirius. Lupin sighs, and Harry pretends not to see any of it.

“It reads like a language, but not one that I’ve ever come across before,” Lupin explains. “You can see repetitions, which I assume are smaller, more common words, but the letters do not come from our alphabet. I’ve contacted several authors and translators, but so far there’s been nothing useful turned up.”

“I’ll ask Hermione,” Harry says, and Lupin laughs.

“If anyone could figure it out, it would be the brightest witch of her age,” Sirius agrees, and then he makes a small noise and surges forward, pushing open a nearby door. “We cleaned out one of the guest rooms for you. It’s not brilliant, but it’ll do for now.”

Harry takes in the open window, the blue bedspread and the faded Quidditch posters on the walls and grins. It already feels more like home than the Dursley’s does. He tells Sirius this, beaming, and Sirius snorts, ruffles his hair in a pleased way.

“Come down for dinner when you’ve finished unpacking,” Lupin tells him, backing out of the room. “Don’t worry, I won’t let Sirius near the oven.”

There’s a squawk of protest as the door snaps shut quietly, and Harry throws himself on the bed, content to just stare at the ceiling. He thought, maybe, that he might have been interrogated the second he came through the fireplace. He was afraid, still, despite the reassurance from the letter, that he might not be welcome once they realised that it was all true, and not a rumour.

Not the gay bit, Harry still isn’t sure about that. The kissing a boy bit. Because that _definitely_ happened.

Harry shoots up off the bed before he can think about it too much, busies himself with unpacking a few things. He didn’t pack anything, since he’s only here for a week or so, but the photo of his parents gets pride and place on the bedside table. Harry taps the glass fondly for a moment, watches them dance, and then pulls on warmer socks before heading downstairs.

It’s going to be a good Christmas.

*

Harry is curled up in the library when the subject is finally broached. The past four days have been nice and warm and soothing, hilarious and fun, _relaxing_ , a brief peek into the world that might have been Harry’s, had he grown up with someone other than the Dursley’s, had Dumbledore not confused being alive with living. Because he did feel alive here, more so than when he spent the summer at Privet Drive, listlessly drifting through the days with only handfuls of words from his friends to get him through the endless weeks of being ignored and punched and insulted.

Grimmauld Place, for all its’ faults, feels like home.

But the conversation eventually comes around to a certain article in a certain newspaper, featuring a certain Chosen One and a blurry blonde boy. Harry waits for a good few minutes for his Godfather’s – Lupin is as much his family as Sirius is, even if it is a little more awkward – to get up the nerve to speak to him, and eventually he just puts down his Charms homework and leans forward in his seat, staring expectantly at them.

Sirius huffs a laugh. “I think we used to be subtler than this, Moony. We wouldn’t have gotten away with half of our pranks if we weren’t.”

“We didn’t get away with any of our pranks,” Lupin says, rolling his eyes. “McGonagall caught us every time, and we spent most of our schooldays in detention because of you and James.”

Harry eats the information up eagerly, the way he does with even the slightest morsel offered related to his parents.

“Don’t act like you were the innocent one,” Sirius says, flicking Lupin’s ear. “You were just smarter about it, that’s all. Besides, you’ve got that whole bookworm look going for you, it makes you look deceptively trustworthy.”

“Didn’t fool McGonagall,” Lupin mutters ruefully.

“Nothing fools McGonagall,” Harry adds. “Not even an invisibility cloak.”

“Should have used that when you were kissing Malfoy,” Sirius says, grinning, and then his expression freezes. Lupin lets out a frustrated sigh, rubbing at his temples, and Sirius winces.

“So much for easing into it,” Lupin snaps.

“It’s alright,” Harry says, feeling a little awkward. He’d rather discuss it properly than beat around the bush for an hour, getting more and more nervous. His stomach still flips over, though, as he thinks about the newspaper article and the things that Skeeter wrote. “Uh, _is_ it alright?”

Sirius blinks at him, and then scowls darkly. “If you think for one second that we agree with anything that that stupid old cow wrote about you, then you don’t know us very well.”

Lupin sighs loudly. “What Sirius means is, that if you want to talk about it, then you can. If you don’t want to talk about it, then that’s fine too, as long as you know that what Rita Skeeter did was wrong, and that we will still feel the same about you no matter who you like.”

“That’s exactly what I meant,” Sirius says, mouth twitching. “You can talk to me about anything, Harry, and Moony here. We might know a bit about what you’re going through, actually.” He and Remus share a glance, and Harry wonders why they haven’t told him that they’re together yet. Maybe they think he’ll react badly, or maybe they think he’ll be uncomfortable, but the truth is, Harry doesn’t care. They deserve something good, the both of them, after what they’ve been through.

“I don’t really know what I’m going through,” Harry says, shrugging. He slumps back against the cushion and frowns at a crack in the ceiling. “You don’t exactly get taught this stuff. ‘specially when it comes to blokes.”

“Too right,” Sirius snorts. “Although I’m kind of glad. Imagine some slimy old teacher talking to you about dating and sex.”

Harry endures a traumatic second wherein he imagines Snape giving them all a lecture on safe sex, and then groans, shoving his head into a pillow and feeling decidedly ill.

“Wait,” Sirius says, a note of glee in his voice. “Do _we_ need to give you that talk?”

Harry bolts upright and glares at him. “ _No_. Blaise is a mine of information, and Hermione gave me a book after the article came out.”

It was a horrible book, full of very helpful pictures, and Harry had made the mistake of flipping it open curiously whilst Hermione was still there, and the both of them had gone very red and not looked at each other as he shoved the book in his bag hastily.

Sirius looks so disappointed that Harry almost relents, but he thinks about what that conversation might entail and just winces, shaking his head.

“Save it for your own kids,” Harry suggests.

“About that,” Lupin says. He and Sirius exchange cautious glances, and then Sirius rolls his eyes and laces their fingers together purposefully. He looks calm and almost bland when he turns to gage Harry’s response, but Harry can see the anxiety in his eyes, the nervous tick in his jaw. Lupin looks less worried, but his grip on Sirius’s fingers looks quite tight.

Harry can’t help the slightly sly grin that creeps over his face. “I saw the two of you kissing three days ago, in the kitchen.”

There’s a second of silence, and then Sirius throws his head back and laughs heartily. Lupin sighs in exasperation and grins ruefully at Harry.

“I suppose we look a bit stupid, then, making such a big deal out of this.” Lupin lifts their joined hands slightly. “But we wanted something that was a little subtler than a thousand rainbow banners and a gay pride flag coming out of a cake.”

“Personally, I thought that was a fantastic idea,” Sirius says, still grinning. He kisses Lupin’s knuckle briefly, and Harry feels a rush of joy at the thought of them being themselves now, no censorship or worry or caution.

He wonders if he’d feel as happy as they look, if he talked about how he felt. Sirius doesn’t look anything but pleased, and Lupin is smiling gently, like he can sense Harry’s thoughts, and Harry knows, somehow, that they wouldn’t mind in the slightest if he turned his attention to something else, if he went to bed early. They aren’t expecting anything.

He opens his mouth and talks, quietly. He talks for a half hour, and then another half hour, about Draco and Blaise and the rest of the school, about the sick feeling in his stomach when he read the paper, about kissing Cho Chang in fourth year and kissing Draco in the tent, and then running away, and his little breakdown afterwards. He talks about avoiding Draco until the last moment, when all he really wanted to do was ask Draco to the ball.

“Can you even like boys as well as girls?” Harry asks exasperatedly, running a hand through his hair. “It feels the same. It’s the _person_ that’s different, but it all feels the same. Butterflies and stuff.”

“You can like whoever you want to like,” Sirius says solemnly. They’re spread out on two couches now, slumped against cushions and enjoying the crackle of the fire as rain pours against the window. Lupin has his head in Siriu's lap, a book balanced on his knee, and he glances at it every now and again, but if Harry starts to talk, Lupin gives him his undivided attention. Sirius cards on hand through Lupin's greying hair, reaches for a sweet with the other and tosses it to Harry, who catches it easily. The blue wrapper joins a pile on the floor as he pops the toffee into his mouth and chews thoughtfully.

“Does it have a name though?” Harry asks.

“You don’t have to label yourself,” Lupin says softly. “Some people prefer not to. But if you’d like a label, then bisexuality is what you’re generally considered if you like two genders.”

Harry mouths the word. He feels tired, but he wants to keep talking, so he does. He talks about Draco, mostly, and by the time he’s gotten everything off his chest, drifting off into silence, it’s gone midnight. Harry sighs, leans back against the cushions, and then snatches Lupin’s book off of the floor when the werewolf accidentally drops it. The title says something about Slytherin, and Harry tips it over curiously, staring at the front page, almost forgetting about Lupin’s outstretched hand.

It’s a journal, written in delicate scrawl, and the first page details the contents of the book, as well as a few scribbles here and there; potion ingredients and half-thought up spells, by the looks of it. He hands it back to Lupin, intrigued, and looks up to see both of his Godfather’s staring at him oddly.

“Harry, were you reading that?” Lupin asks gently.

Harry frowns at him. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be able to? I know I’m not as smart as Hermione, but even I know how to read.”

Lupin sits up alarmingly quickly, and Sirius hums, blinking in surprise.

“Harry, this is one of the books with the spell on it,” Lupin says, staring excitedly from the book to Harry. “I can’t understand a thing it says.” He gestures with a little slip of parchment that Harry hadn’t noticed during their talk, presumably full of potential translations, and Harry frowns. He can only think of one possibility.

“I think it might be written in parseltongue,” Harry offers tentatively, and he’s honestly worried that Lupin might explode from excitement. Sirius looks from Lupin’s excited face, to Harry’s wary one, and then to all the books surrounding them, and groans.

“We’re going to need more sweets. And coffee, lots and _lots_ of coffee.”

 *

Harry goes home at the end of the week with seven books shoved inside his trunk, a plan, and fiercely proud hugs from both Sirius and Lupin, who promise to come and see him once the Third Task is over. Harry almost doesn’t want to leave, almost asks to stay longer, but there are things waiting for him back at Hogwarts, and the castle is his home, after all.

He slips through the grate and lands in Snape’s office. Snape isn’t there, thankfully, and Harry quickly exits the office before he can return and put Harry in detention for breathing near Snape’s desk. He has a plethora of old school stories from Sirius, and a slightly disapproving Lupin, and he doesn’t think he can look at Snape without feeling an odd mix of amusement and guilt, even though it wasn’t Harry that ruined Snape’s childhood.

He makes it to the Common Room unscathed and yells when Pansy throws herself at him, shrieking.

“Pansy!” he yells, batting her hands away from his hair. “I’ve only been gone for seven days.”

She grins at him, winking, and then starts wailing at the top of her voice about how much she missed him. Most people just look amused, and Harry bears it with a resigned sigh.

“Blaise has been rubbing off on you,” he says, when she stops fake-sobbing.  

“He wishes,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Did you have a good holiday?”

Harry pulls her in for a real hug, and then grins when she looks at him, startled. “It was great. Have you seen Draco?”

Pansy’s eyes go wide. “Oh Merlin. He’s in your dormitory, I think. He was throwing a snit because he had to take the floo instead of side-apparating here.”

Harry winces. Ash in Draco’s hair probably hasn’t put him in the best mood, but Harry has to say something before he loses his nerve, before the excitement from Sirius’s farewell pep-talk wears off.

“Potter, you better be about to do what I think you’re going to do,” Pansy warns him, waggling her finger in his face.

Harry smiles a little weakly, and then ducks past Pansy as she squeals excitedly, clapping her hands over her mouth and then glaring at a second year who looks at her judgingly. The kid makes a speedy exit, and Harry laughs as he clambers the stairs. He steels himself on the stairway, hand gripping the strap of his bag so tightly that his knuckles turn white. The dormitory door is ajar and Harry can hear the tell-tale sound of Blaise crooning some old wizard jazz song, one that actually sounds a little familiar now that he thinks about it, probably because Blaise has an obsession with blasting jazz at inappropriate times. Harry listens for a moment, lets the sound calm him down, and then strides purposefully up the last few stairs and into the room.

Draco isn't there.

Harry deflates like a sad balloon, sighing as he heads towards his bed. He dumps his bag there and collapses on the mattress with a squeak of bedsprings, and Blaise's singing gets louder as he waltzes closer, robes thrown over one shoulder. Harry winces -- Blaise is irritatingly adept at pretty much everything, but singing isn't his strong point.

"Don't give up your day job," Harry tells him, and Blaise fakes a scandalised gasp, clutching his chest theatrically as he pretends to swoon, collapsing on the bed beside Harry and making him bounce slightly with the added weight. The mattress creaks slightly as Blaise gets comfortable, and they lie in silence for a moment.

"What's got you down, buttercup?"

Harry turns his head slightly so he can arch an eyebrow at Blaise, who shrugs.

"Just trying out some new pet names," Blaise says. "What about pumpkin? Biscuit? Irritated little muffin?"

Harry grimaces. "Er -- I'll pass, thanks. Have you, uh, seen Malfoy anywhere?"

Blaise pauses with his mouth wide open and stares suspiciously at him. "Why? What's he done now? Something embarrassing, I hope."

"Nothing, this time," Harry say, snorting. He can feel his stomach start to flutter. "It's my turn to embarrass myself, but I need to find him first. Pansy said he stormed up here?"

"He's in the bathroom, going through his regular twelve-hour-long haircare routine before bed." Blaise tilts his head to the side. "This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain _ball_ that's coming up, would it?"

Harry feels his heart stumble in his chest. He gazes firmly at the ceiling. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Just like how you haven't heard the rumour about you and a certain blonde getting it on in the medi-witch tent after that dragon fiasco?"

Harry chokes on his own saliva and has to rocket up off the bed to save himself. Blaise stays where he is, lying on his back and snickering as Harry coughs and thumps his chest to get his heart going again.

"We weren't getting it on," Harry says weakly, when he can breathe again. "Everyone knows about that, anyway. It was in the Prophet, and you read it.”

“I did read it,” Blaise says seriously. “We haven’t actually talked about it, though. I’m giving you a chance to do that on your own terms.”

Harry feels a rush of affection for the boy beside him.

“He kissed me, and I may have kissed him back before, uh -- running away?"

Blaise starts to laugh properly then, big hearty chuckles that shake the bed. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and grins brightly at Harry.

"You ran away? Harry, darling, that takes avoidance and denial to a new level, that does. What did Draco's face look like?"

Harry shoots Blaise a dry look. "It wasn't funny. And aren't you supposed to be his friend, too?"

Blaise flaps a dismissive hand. "I haven't forgiven him for not believing you about the Goblet. Besides, it's _Malfoy_. A little rejection was probably good for his soul."

"I didn't reject him," Harry protests. "I was just shocked, that's all. I've never really thought about – well, _guys_ before. Not like that."

Blaise makes an inquiring sound and reaches up to card his fingers through Harry's hair. It's affectionate and warm, and exactly what Harry needs right now, so he leans into the touch gratefully.

"Does it matter?" Blaise asks softly. "For the minute, anyway. What does it matter if you like boys too? It's the same as liking a girl, pretty much. I mean, there are some differences in the _equipment_ , sometimes, but that doesn't really matter."

"Blaise," Harry says, a little desperately. "You're really not helping."

Blaise snickers. "All I'm saying is, you don't have to figure everything out now, all at once, by yourself. Did you ever think that maybe Malfoy might be going through the same thing? As awfully plebeian as it sounds, perhaps you could work it out together."

“I talked to Sirius and Remus about this,” Harry says shrugging. “They agree, and they gave me some advice. Do you think I should ask him to the Yule Ball?"

Blaise rolls his eyes, pats Harry on the head. "Do you want to go with him to the Yule Ball?"

Harry blinks at him. "Yeah."

"Then ask. Christ, Potter, it's really not that complicated," Pansy says, appearing in the doorway. She’s gotten changed, miraculously quickly, into a pair of silk pink pyjamas, and she looks a lot smaller than usual, but still as fiercely determined.  

They both jump in surprise and Harry almost hits his head on the bedpost, but Blaise yanks him back in time.

"I'm supposed to be going to the ball with Draco," Pansy says, beckoning Blaise over. "But just as friends. Ask him, and if he brings that up as an excuse then tell him I've chosen Blaise over him. Now hurry up. All of this tension is making me hungry. Escort me to the kitchen, Zabini?"

"Why, I'd be delighted, Miss Parkinson," Blaise says, adopting a southern belle accent and almost making Harry choke on his own tongue. He watches them leave, smiles weakly at Blaise when the boy blows him a farewell kiss, and then Harry stands up quickly, heading for the bathroom before he can change his mind.

Draco is there, at the sink, humming as he taps his barefoot feet against the floor, looking remarkably cosy in a pair of grey cotton pants and a big white t-shirt. Harry swallows thickly, and thinks about bolting, but then Draco meets Harry's eyes in the mirror, and his stomach wobbles, and Harry just blurts out his question.

"Wanna go to the ball with me?”

Draco blinks at him hugely in the mirror, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. Harry suddenly desperately wishes he were on the opposite side of the planet, wearing a disguise and changing his occupation from ‘awkward disaster of a human’ to something a little less doomed, like an acromantula herder.

"What?" Draco asks, after a beat, his voice slightly muffled around a mouthful of toothpaste.

Harry winces and repeats the question. "Do you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?"

Draco looks no less shocked the second time around. In fact, he looks a bit like an owl that's just been threatened with a pair of tweezers -- taken aback, slightly offended, and hellishly confused.

"As a date," Harry clarifies, when Draco remains mute. "Together. Not as friends."

“To the ball?” Draco tries to ask, and then splutters on the toothpastes. He starts to cough, a loud, hacking sound, and Harry’s eyes go wide as he takes a hesitant step back towards the door.

“This isn’t really the best time,” Harry says, as Draco fumbles for the tap, splashing water on his face.

Draco yanks the toothbrush out of his mouth and whirls around to point it menacingly in Harry’s face. The threat is enough to halt Harry, which is surprising, considering the fact that there’s toothpaste all over Draco’s chin and water down his top, and he still looks a little bit like a startled deer.

“You better mean that, Potter, or I’ll ram this up your nose.”

The toothbrush flails closer and Harry snorts, rolls his eyes.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

Draco blinks at him, lowering the toothbrush. “It’s an ‘if you’re serious, then you better wear something classy if you want me to be seen with you,’ alright?”

“He’s lying!” Greg shouts from the dormitory, and they both jump. “You could wear a bin bag and he’d still want to date you! He said so!”

“Shut up, Goyle!” Draco bellows back. He’s bright red, either with embarrassment or murderous rage, Harry can’t tell, but there’s a blush creeping up his own neck regardless.

“Just can’t get the staff these days,” Draco mutters under his breath, sticking his chin up like he’s daring Harry to make fun of him, but actually Harry’s more interested in kissing him, if he can figure out a way to do it without fumbling or looking stupid, or missing Draco’s mouth. It takes him by surprise, how much he _wants_ to kiss Draco.

“Guess that means I’ll get Blaise to take me shopping then,” Harry says quietly, and Draco glances up at him sharply, a soft, barely-there smile stealing over his face.

“Take Pansy,” Draco says. “She has better taste.”

There’s an outraged sound from behind them, and then a sharp inhale as presumably Pansy’s elbow makes contact with some of Blaise’s squishy parts, and Harry sighs, tips his head back against the doorframe.

“You’re Slytherins,” Harry calls, amused. “You’re supposed to be sneaky.”

“The Sorting Hat never specified that,” Blaise yells back, and Harry hears Pansy sigh exasperatedly, obviously giving up. “It said _cunning_ , not sneaky. Malfoy, my taste is _exquisite_ , now get out here so that I can mess up your hair.”

“How tempting,” Draco deadpans, but he does head for the door, wiping his mouth with the hem of his shirt and grimacing at the toothpaste stain.

“Well I can’t punch you, can I?” Blaise continues, still yelling over the sound of jazz music and Pansy’s muttering. “My muscles are so big that you’d break in half, and my shirt would probably rip appealingly and bring everyone running, and that would just be embarrassing for all of us, really.”

Harry laughs, just as Draco darts in and kisses his cheek. It lands a little awkwardly, but Harry’s too busy trying not to spontaneously combust to care, especially when he catches Draco’s eye.

“Sweet.”

“Fuck _off_ , Blaise.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! If there are any glaring mistakes please feel free to tell me in the comments, I'll get this fixed up :) And leave a comment or a kudos on your way out if you fancy! Thank you!  
> thealmostrhetoricalquestion on tumblr, remember!


	8. Lip Gloss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm a bit pissed at myself because this was supposed to be The Yule Ball. This was going to be a long chapter, with plot and kisses, but it devolved into 2k of just kisses. Which I hope is written well? And will suffice? But honestly I'm still mad, and you'll have the next chapter up really soon. It's not bad, this chapter, it's just not what I wanted! But I hope you enjoy it, regardless, and thanks again for all the fantastically wonderful response, you guys are the best.

“Harry, love, stop fidgeting and sit still before I skewer you, and not in the fun way either.” Blaise winks, and Harry would roll his eyes on any other given day, but there’s a black eye-pencil mere millimetres away from his face, and he doesn’t doubt Blaise’s threat one little bit. Blaise isn’t one for empty threats; he follows through, and when that happens, it’s best to just wait out the storm.

So he doesn’t doubt Blaise’s threat, but what he _does_ doubt, however, is his ability to get through the next half hour without violent murdering his best friend.

“You promised that you’d get me drunk before you did this,” Harry mutters despondently, resisting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut as Blaise swipes the pencil underneath his lower line.

“If _you’re_ drinking, then that means _I’m_ drinking, and since I’m the one with all the power here, I doubt that would be a good idea,” Blaise says, using the tip of his finger to smudge the line. “If you’d like to look like a raccoon that’s suffering from a fatal blow to the head, say the word and I’ll conjure us up something nice and strong.”

Harry winces; he doesn’t actually like alcohol all that much, and he’s only been drunk once, after accidentally downing the wrong drink at a Slytherin party, just after they won the Quidditch Cup. Blaise taps his temple and Harry shuts his eyes obediently. The pencil is a little scratchy against his eyelid, but the press of smooth fingers against his skin is somewhat soothing. He does _like_ this, to an extent, and Blaise has done this once or twice before as a way of practicing for himself, and Harry had been wary at first, but in the end he’d quite liked it. The make-up, that is.

“Looking devastating, darling,” Blaise declares, smudging another line. “Now the other eye.”

“Why do you do that?” Harry blurts out, before he can stop himself. He opens his eyes slowly in time to see Blaise’s curious expression. They’re in the middle of their dormitory, sitting cross-legged on the floor in comfortable clothes, an excessive amount of make-up spread around them in a messy half-circle.

“Do what?” Blaise asks. “You’ll have to be a little more specific than that, dear.”

“That,” Harry says, his eyelid twitching as Blaise gently nudges the pencil near it. “Call me names. Pet names. Like darling, and dear, and –”

“Love?” Blaise offers quietly.

Harry nods hesitantly. “Yeah, that.”

“Is it a problem?” Blaise asks, something vulnerable shifting in the lines of his dark face. Harry shakes his head immediately and the pencil skims his cheekbone; Blaise wipes the resulting mark away with his thumb and mock-glares at Harry.

“It’s been years, Harry,” Blaise says, selecting a pallet of different coloured powders. Harry doesn’t know if it’s because he _needs_ the powders or if it’s because he doesn’t want to look at Harry quite yet. “If you’ve got a problem with it, I’ll stop, obviously. All you ever had to do was ask. You should have done it sooner, though.”

“I don’t have a problem with it,” Harry insists firmly. He doesn’t like the look on Blaise’s face. He’s not sure why he brought it up, now of all times, but he knows it’s not because he wants Blaise to stop. “It’s nice. I just wondered, that’s all. You don’t call everyone else names like that.”

Blaise looks up at him, something unreadable in his dark eyes. “The others don’t need me do to it.”

When Harry continues to look confused, Blaise sighs dramatically and fiddles with the lid of the pallet. “There’s no big secret here, Harry. You deserve to be called those things. When I met you, at the Sorting, you looked so bloody miserable. You looked like nobody in the world had ever uttered a single word of kindness your way. Don’t look at me like that, it isn’t _pity_. It’s determination, if anything.”

The frown fades from Harry’s face. “Er, how?”

Blaise winks at him again. “I’m determined, Harry James Potter, to make you feel as loved as possible, because that’s what you are, darling.”

Harry snorts, ducks his head to hide his blush. “You’re mad,” he mutters fondly, and Blaise taps his chin with an eyeshadow brush until Harry looks up.

Another wink. “Maybe I just like seeing you blush.”

They spend a few minutes in silence, Harry contemplating this as Blaise carefully applies grey eyeshadow to the corners of Harry’s eyes.

“Oh Merlin,” Harry groans suddenly. “Pansy’s in on it too, isn’t she? It’s some kind of thing you guys have got going on, _that’s_ why she’s always trying to feed me.”

Blaise starts to snicker, and Draco’s voice makes them both jump as the blonde boy pokes his head around the door.

“Give the boy a star,” Draco drawls. “He’s finally figured it out. And it only took you, what, six _years_? I’m impressed.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Welcome to Zabini’s Salon, otherwise known as Harry Potter’s own personal hell. Come to get your eyeballs poked out with a pencil?”

Draco grins, leans against the doorway casually, in a way that makes Harry bite back a sigh. “I was thinking of getting a manicure, actually, but now I’m not so sure. Do you think I’d come away with my hands intact?”

“The odds are pretty low,” Harry says solemnly, and Blaise flicks him on the nose with the brush.

“Rude,” Blaise admonishes them. “Draco, how can I be of service?”

Draco watches them for a moment, seemingly out of amusement, and then jerks his head at the door. “Pansy sent me to get you. Something involving taffeta and nail varnish, I wasn’t really listening beyond ‘Draco, get the fuck out of my room before I throttle you’, so you’ll have to ask her.”

“Smart man,” Harry says, at the same time as Blaise tuts.

“Well, Harry’s just about done. I suppose I have time to play the dashing hero, rescue our favourite damsel.”

Harry shakes his head and says, “Draco looks fine to me. I think you should probably help Pansy instead.”

Draco flips him off. “Hilarious, Potter.”

Blaise stands up smoothly, tosses something at Draco and winks at him. “You can do Potter’s mouth.”

Both Draco and Harry blush horribly, and Harry launches a couple of brushes at the back of Blaise’s head. Blaise ducks out of the room, cackling madly, and the dormitory is suddenly plunged into silence. Harry bites his lip and fidgets. He feels, abruptly, like he’s got a face caked in unnecessary powder, even though he knows Blaise promised to be subtle.

Draco stays stock still, a tube of something still caught in his grip, and he’s clutching it like it’s a lifeline. Harry decides to spare him anymore awkwardness and attempts to stand, his knees creaking in protest at having been sat down for so long.

“You don’t have to,” Harry says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice at the fact that Draco still hasn’t moved. “Blaise was probably just messing around. Lipstick seems like a bit much, anyway.”

Draco shakes his head, lifts the tube slightly. “It’s gloss, I think. You don’t need lipstick anyway, your mouth is already – uh, prominent.”

Harry blinks at him slowly. Prominent. Harry’s not stupid – he knows what the word means, he’s just trying to figure out if it’s a good thing or not, considering they’re talking about his _mouth_ , here. Probably a good thing, judging by Draco’s deer-in-the-headlights expression.

“Well,” Harry says eventually, deciding to gloss over the little slip of the tongue to save Draco’s dignity. “Like I said. You don’t have to do it.”

Draco rolls his eyes, blush receding. “Sit your ass down, Potter, before I make you. I may not be up to Blaise’s personal standards, but I reckon I can manage a bit of lipgloss. It’s not like I’m almost top of our year or anything.”

Suddenly, everything feels normal again.

“I wasn’t questioning your ability,” Harry says, rolling his eyes back as he flops down on the floor. Neither of them are dressed, and the Yule Ball starts in an hour or two, but as Draco comes closer and kneels in front of him, Harry can’t help but wish that they could spend the rest of the evening here, like this.

Draco winces, digs around under his knee until he produces a mascara wand, stares at it warily like it’s a bizarre sort of bomb. “I don’t know what half of this shit is,” he mutters, and Harry snorts.

“Neither do I, and most of it’s on my face.”

Draco waves the gloss warningly. “You signed up for this.”

It should not be tense. It should not be hard to breathe, but it is. Harry can feel a lump growing in his throat as he watches pale, slender fingers unscrew the lid of the lipgloss, as Draco leans forward, hesitating for just the barest of moments before he shuffles closer. Soft fingertips glide up Harry’s jaw, slowly, and tilt his chin down ever so slightly. Harry doesn’t notice that he’s got his lips pursed tightly, barely breathing, until Draco quirks an eyebrow and smirks fondly.

Then Draco drags the pad of his thumb over Harry’s bottom lip, and his mouth parts, gently, with a soft sound. The light touch sends a shiver up his spine, and he tries not to breathe too loudly as Draco moves even closer, sometimes.

“Might be cold,” Draco mumbles, and then he carefully swipes the gloss over Harry’s lips. It’s not sticky, but it is slick, and Draco has to pause as Harry swallows thickly. Grey eyes flick up curiously, framed by fine blonde lashes, meeting green. It’s quiet, and in the dim light, Draco’s skin looks oddly silver, his face partially shadowed, his eyes growing darker by the second.

“Alright?” Harry whispers. He sways a little closer, unbidden, and is rewarded with the dip in Draco’s throat as he swallows.

“Yeah,” Draco murmurs. The gloss falls to the floor, and Draco’s hand slides around the back of Harry’s neck, barely skimming his skin, and yet Harry moves forward easily, like he was pushed. They both forget to breathe as they meet in the middle.

Harry keeps his eyes open. He stares at the thin skin of Draco’s closed eyelids, the traceries of veins there, the pale shape of his eyes, curved at the corners. Then Draco _drags_ his mouth _up_ against Harry’s, and Harry shuts his eyes tightly with a groan, unable to keep them open. Draco swallows up the sound eagerly, lips gliding against each other, the movements made slicker by the gloss.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They’re barely moving, barely kissing, everything soft and slow and hesitant, but Harry feels like his nerves are alight, _burning_ , and his fingers shake as he eventually settles them on Draco’s slim hips. A hand twists in the hair at the back of his neck, tugging a little, and he inhales sharply enough that Draco draws back a little, surprised.

Harry yanks on his hips, a little roughly, and Draco falls forward into Harry’s lap with a small yelp of surprise. Their eyes fly open and they pause, inches from each other, panting harshly.

“I could do this forever,” Draco mutters against his lips. “I’ve _wanted_ to do this forever.”

That sends a rush through Harry’s chest, makes him feel drunk, heavy. There’s a fire burning inside of him, and as he pulls Draco forward so that their chests press together, he wonders if Draco can feel the heat too.

Apparently he can, because Draco surges forward suddenly and kisses him fiercely, knees sliding forward so that they’re on either side of Harry’s hips, thighs pressed together, catching Harry off guard for a moment. They fall into a rhythm, mouths sliding against each other messily, hands on cheeks and necks and hips. Draco slides both of his hands into Harry’s hair and tips his head backwards to trace a hot, wet line down Harry’s throat, and just as he bites down, rolling the skin between his teeth, the door to the dormitory bursts open.

They spring apart as Pansy shrieks in the doorway, and Draco crashes to the floor with a yell. Harry blinks dizzily, one hand still on Draco’s thigh – the other boy scrambles up out of Harry’s lap, and Harry feels oddly bereft.

“Damn,” Blaise says, grinning in an impressed way as Pansy peeks out from between her fingers. “Don’t stop on our account.”

Draco tips his head back and glares at the ceiling. He’s still breathing hard, and his cheeks are flushed, and even though Harry knows he’s in a similar state, he still feels proud of the way Draco’s mouth looks all red and tempting.

“You have the worst timing,” Harry tells Blaise solemnly. Draco flushes even harder, casts Harry an indecipherable look.

“Agreed,” Draco mutters, and then excuses himself with a sigh, batting Blaise over the head as the other boy tries to ruffle his hair on the way past.

“That,” Pansy declares, dropping her hands away from her eyes, “is not something that I wanted to see.”

“I, for one, am mad that we missed the beginning of the show,” Blaise says, and then he points at Harry and taps his lip. “You’ve got a little lipgloss, well, _everywhere_.”

Harry lets his head thump back against the wall. He can’t _wait_ for this evening.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make-out session done! I hope you liked it, I hope you're not too mad, I hope you enjoy the next chapter as much as I enjoy reading all your lovely comments and seeing your kudos. Thank you a billion!  
> Come find me at coconutcranberries on tumblr :)


	9. The Yule Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Yule Ball includes surprisingly little dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, it's been so long! And this isn't very good! But I have some inspiration now and the chapters will be updated regularly! The plot is advancing, as is the relationship. *rubs hands together*

In Harry’s own personal opinion, there is nothing quite as terrifying as the sight of a harassed-looking Professor McGonagall bearing down on him, dressed in green tartan robes and a very pointy hat. The Entrance Hall is a hive of activity; girls float past in elegant dresses in a myriad of fabrics and colours, and boys march around, clapping each other on the backs and looking a little reluctant, for the most part, to join the throng of people heading into the Hall. Harry fiddles with the sleeve of his robes – Pansy had picked them out in Hogsmeade, exclaiming happily over the subtle touches of silver and green, whilst Harry stared dubiously in the mirror and tried to ignore the shop assistant that was staring at his scar.

“Mr Potter, thank goodness,” Professor McGonagall says, as she draws nearer, her glasses a little askew. “It’s almost time to enter the Hall. Are you and your partner ready?”

Harry blinks rapidly, horror dawning on him. “What do you mean, Professor?”

“Surely Professor Snape explained the traditions tied to the Yule Ball to you? The champions are always the first to dance.”

Harry whips around and hisses at Draco, who’s standing a little way away, smoothing down his robes nervously. He looks resplendent, hair carefully tousled, dull silver robes shining slightly in the light of a thousand fairy lights, and for a moment, Harry is struck speechless. He’s already seen Draco, walked with him from the Common Room to the Hall, and yet he keeps finding himself lost for words.

“Uh,” Harry says, and Draco rolls his eyes and strolls over to join him.

“What have you done now?” Draco asks. “It’s too late to take your invitation back. I’m already dressed, and I’m not going _alone_. Malfoy’s are never without a date. It’s undignified.”

“We have to dance,” Harry blurts out.

“I rather thought that was the point of a ball, Potter.”

“ _First_ ,” Harry says. “We have to dance first, in front of everyone. Isn’t that right, Professor?”

Professor McGonagall looks rather taken aback. She glances between Harry and Draco with something like shock fading from her eyes, and then Harry blinks, and McGonagall is wearing her usual stern look.

“That’s correct, Potter,” she says. “You and your partner will file in last. Come and line up behind Mr Krum, if you will.”

Draco’s eyes are just as wide as Harry’s, but he quickly composes himself, tugging Harry over to the group. Harry very much wants to run the other way, but he can’t do that. He can’t do that to Draco, and besides that, he’s never been one to back away from a challenge.

He takes a deep breath and follows Draco, standing in line behind Krum and a pretty girl in a blue dress that Harry doesn’t know. She turns as Harry and Draco reach her, and Harry trips, catching himself on Draco’s arm.

“Hermione?”

Hermione smiles a little shyly at them. She looks beautiful, her usually untameable hair tumbling in glossy, sleek curls down her back. Her dress is floaty and silky and fits her perfectly, and her smile looks a little different, for some reason.

“You look amazing,” Harry says loudly, and Krum turns for a moment to glower at him, but relaxes when he sees who it is. He shakes Harry’s hand firmly, nods at Draco, and then kisses Hermione’s hand before facing the front again. Hermione blushes, grinning widely.

“You scrub up well, Granger,” Draco says, still looking a little stunned. He keeps glancing at Krum, mildly starstruck.  

“You both look very handsome,” Hermione says. “I’m glad you finally got your act together.”

Harry snorts. “I hope you have a good time, too, Hermione.”

The doors open, and McGonagall waves her hands from the front of the line. Harry finds Draco’s hand and curls their fingers together, awkwardly at first, and then everything just fits, and Harry’s never felt so comfortable.

“Scared, Potter?” Draco mutters. He catches Harry’s eye, just as the sound of music and applause reaches their ears.

“You wish,” Harry murmurs back, grinning.

*

“Here." 

A drink is thrust into Harry's hands, and he fumbles for a moment before getting a good grip on the goblet. Draco raises his own drink to his lips and studiously avoids Harry's gaze, staring out at the crowd of people dancing. They’ve picked a rather secluded corner of the Great Hall, next to a platter of sandwiches that keeps re-filling itself, and away from the loud beat of the music that seems to have swept the students into a frenzy.

"I notice you didn't get me a drink," Pansy says, rolling her eyes. She looks stunning, wearing an elegant, long purple dress that hugs her slim figure, her dark hair shining sleekly. She has a purple flower wrapped around one wrist that keeps swaying and smells sweetly of honey.

"You have legs, don't you?" Draco smirks at her. “I’m sure I’ve heard you blather on about how attractive they are a thousand times.”

"Such chivalry," Pansy says drolly. She clicks her tongue and then snags a passing boy from Durmstrang, who drops his sandwich in shock. She then drags him into the fray to dance, ignoring the wide, desperate looks he’s sending to a group of his friends, who are sniggering nearby.

Draco uses the distraction to shift slightly closer, their robes brushing. "What happened to Weasley? He was here moping when I went to get drinks." 

"Blaise forced him to dance to get him to shut up," Harry says. He points at a spot in the crowd, on the dancefloor, where Ron's pale, terrified expression can be seen over Blaise's shoulder. Draco follows his finger and snickers into his drink. Blaise has his head high, his steps broad and sweeping, delicate and yet powerful. Ron, in contrast, is attempting to shrink into his awfully old-fashioned robes, his hair on end and his cheeks painted red. 

"I think they make a good couple," Draco says. “Do you think we’ll get a holiday card this year, or is it too soon?”

"They would kill each other within the first five minutes," Harry counters, but he’s grinning. "As long as it gets Ron's mind off of Hermione and Krum, I don't mind." 

"I definitely wasn't expecting that," Draco muses. “I always thought it was a given that Granger and Weasley would go together. Although if Weasley didn’t bother asking her, then he can hardly complain about it now, can he?”

Harry grimaces, privately agreeing.

Draco takes another sip of his drink and then shifts even closer, so that their shoulders are pressed together where they’re leaning against the brick wall. Harry leans into the contact, well aware that some people still haven't stopped staring at them since they fumbled their way through the first dance.

"I'm sorry, about the whole entering together thing," Harry mutters. He can see Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown whispering to each other a few tables down, their heads bent together as they watch Harry and Draco. He has half a mind to drag Draco out of the Great Hall and spend the rest of the night somewhere quiet, where they won’t be watched. The implications of his own thoughts hit him, and a blush creeps up his cheeks. "I didn't know the Champions went in first." 

Draco snorts. "That was pretty obvious. You looked like you were about to faint, or throw up all over McGonagall's tartan shoes. Now, _that_ would have been entertaining." 

Harry elbows him in the ribs just as Hermione squeezes her way out of the crowd, beaming brightly. She skids to a stop in front of them and clutches Harry's arm. He can't help but grin back at her; she’s practically glowing, and it’s nice to see.  

"You look like you're having fun," Harry says. "You never said, about Krum..." 

Hermione's cheeks flush. "It was a surprise. He was quite shy about it, too, and I didn't want to spill his secret. Besides, Ron would never have believed me anyway. Where is he?" 

"Dancing," Draco says. "If you can call it that. And very reluctantly, I might add." 

"He wouldn't look at me, when we walked in, or during the first dance." Hermione bites her lip, and then straightens up. Harry can tell that she’s decided not to think of Ron anymore, if she can help it. "Viktor’s gone to go and get us drinks. Would you like to come with us? He’s really rather nice, and his English is quite good.”

Harry shares a glance with Draco, who shrugs nonchalantly. Harry smirks: he can see right through Draco, who's been an avid fan of Viktor Krum for as long as Harry's known him. He knows for a fact that Draco has several photographs in his trunk, as well as a miniature figurine of Krum whizzing about on a broomstick that he keeps at The Manor.

"We'll come with you," Harry says. "Blaise will keep Ron busy until the meal. Hopefully Draco can refrain from asking for an autograph until the end of the evening." 

Draco hisses and digs his hand into Harry's ribs, and punch sloshes over the edges of both of their goblets, nearly hitting Hermione’s dress. She squeaks, darting back, and then rolls her eyes before leading them away.  

The night seems to pass pretty quickly. Draco manages to keep his adoration a secret as they talk with Krum, who mostly has eyes for Hermione. He seems nice, Harry decides. He's still rooting for Ron, naturally, but as Pansy would viciously remind him, it's Hermione's choice. Hermione's life. 

"She seems pretty happy," Harry murmurs, as he and Draco walk back through the Entrance Hall. Their hands are almost touching, and their steps seem to get slower by the moment. "And he seems good for her." 

Draco hums noncommittally as they reach the doorway and slow to a stop. There are a few people still milling about, and one girl sits on the staircase, crying into her friends’ shoulder. Everyone else is crammed into the Great Hall, dancing and shouting and laughing as the music grows louder and faster. Harry peers into the Hall and spots Blaise and Pansy and Ron in a small group. They look happy; Blaise gesticulates wildly, tipsy, and almost knocks Pansy off her feet, much to her disgust. Harry can see a small smile on Ron’s face.

“I don’t think they’d notice if we were gone for a bit longer,” Harry offers.

Draco’s eyes widen slightly, and then he tilts his head to the side. “The grounds? Apparently they decorated the courtyards with real fairies.”

“A walk sounds nice,” Harry agrees.

The courtyards are decorated with more than just real fairies. There are floating candles filling the night with a warm, golden glow, and the snow has been enchanted to sparkle with flecks of silver. Garlands have been strung on every available surface, mistletoe wound around every spare nook and corner, and the fairies flitter to and fro, twittering and shining brightly.

They walk slowly, hands brushing. The snow crunches beneath their feet as they leave the courtyard behind, making for the stone circle at the top of the hill. Harry stares down at Hagrid’s Hut, dusted with snow, and at the empty pumpkin patch. There’s a Christmas tree propped up beside the Hut that looks as though it’s swooned.

“It’s nice,” Harry says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Harry echoes, and Draco snorts.

“Eloquent as ever,” Draco says, tugging on his hand. He really does look good, dressed in silver. It should look obnoxious, perhaps even ridiculous, but the colour and fit is subtle enough that he simply looks refined and, in some strange way, powerful.

“I’ll have you know that I’m incredibly… uh.”

“Articulate?” Draco offers, smirking. “Expressive? Moronic?”

“One of those things was not like the other,” Harry mutters. He gives Draco a small shove, only to gape in surprise as Draco trips backwards into a hedge. “I didn’t realise I was that strong.”

“Your first port of call should be _concern_ , not self-flattery,” Draco snaps, although there’s very little heat in it. His head pops up out of the hedgerow, and he glowers at Harry, who bites his lip in an attempt not to laugh. Then he remembers that it’s Draco, and he laughs anyway, doubling over as he cackles loud enough to spook a couple nearby, who squeak and turn around abruptly upon sighting him.

“Dignified as ever, Potter,” Draco says, holding out a hand imperatively. 

Harry stops laughing long enough to accept the hand, only to yelp in shock as the hedge suddenly rushes up to meet him. He lands hard on Draco’s bony shoulder, face smashed against soft fabric. Their legs are tangled together, and Harry fidgets around until they’re lying in a semi-comfortable position.

“This is cosy.”

Draco snorts. “It’s disgusting. And far too primitive, but at least we’re out of sight.”

Harry props himself up so one elbow so that he’s staring down at Draco, and raises his eyebrows. “And what exactly did you have in mind that couldn’t be done in public.”

Draco goes bright red and scowls up at him. Harry wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, aware that he probably looks ridiculous, and that if Blaise saw him he’d probably die laughing. Draco just looks faintly amused, and eventually the blush recedes and he rolls his eyes.  

“For Merlin’s sake, just come _here_ , Potter.”

“I thought you were going to start calling me Harry now.”

“It’ll vary,” Draco says, yanking him down. “Depending on how much you’ve annoyed me.”

Harry laughs and kisses him quiet.

Things are just starting to get _interesting_ when there’s a rough noise from somewhere nearby, and a rustle of leaves. Harry freezes. He’s rolled over so that he’s on top of Draco, their chests pressed together, their legs tangled up, and they’re both breathing hard. Draco stares at him through heavy-lidded eyes, fingers clenched in Harry’s hair, mouth red, and then there’s another rumble and Draco freezes too.

They roll off each other and sit up, peering over the top of the hedge. Harry can feel irritation bubble up in him as he spots Snape, who’s stalking across the path with his arm held aloft, the light from the wand tip chasing away the shadows that the evening brings. A man is following him so closely that he keeps stepping on Snape’s heels, mumbling quietly.

“Karkaroff,” Draco murmurs. “The Durmstrang Headmaster. What’s he doing with Severus?”

Harry winces at the first time. He forgets, often, that Snape is close to the Malfoy family. He’s heard several stories of incidents when Draco was younger, with Snape looking after him, but even in those stories, Snape remains a cold, aloof figure that deigns his time with reluctance. There is no fondness, no affection in those tales, and even if there were, Harry would still hate the man. He’s never shown Harry any kindness – indeed, he’s never shown anyone any kindness, not even first years with no knowledge of his subject. Harry hates him. He doesn’t particularly care of Draco finds that a problem.

The two men stalk further down the hill, and Harry and Draco share a glance. Harry points his wand at the castle and murmurs a summoning spell. It takes a minute of anxious waiting before his Invisibility Cloak slaps him in the face. He throws it over the both of them, and they both scurry down the hill after Snape and Karkaroff. They follow them, breathing in silence until they reach the edge of the Forbidden forest.

Draco seizes Harry’s hand, yanking him to a stop. Harry falters before he turns and looks at Draco, who’s eyeing the forest warily, face especially pale. 

“It’s just the forest, Draco,” Harry says, squeezing his hand.

Draco cuts him a glare. “How many times have we almost died in that forest? Unicorns and Acromantulas and centaurs, and that bloody car. Not to mention werewolves. I don’t care if he turned out to be your godfather’s boyfriend, he was still utterly _terrifying_.”

Harry bites his lip. “You don’t want to know what’s going on?”

Draco stares at him for a bit and then swears violently under his breath. “Fine. But if I die from this, you can be the one to explain it to my parents. And if I get detention, I’m not going to kiss you for a whole week.”

Harry is kind of surprised to find that he very much doesn’t want to happen. He almost opens his mouth to tell them to turn back, but Draco is already stamping ahead, and Harry has to hurry so that the cloak doesn’t slip off him. They find Snape and Karkaroff a bit further in, both wearing expressions of deep anger and speaking in harsh tones.

“This is not my problem, Karkaroff, but one of your own making.”

“You must feel it too, the mark continues to change daily,” Karkaroff whispers back. “It’s growing, and that can only mean one thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Snape snaps.

Karkaroff whips his sleeve up and thrusts his arm into Snape’s impassive face.

“ _This_ , Snape. I am talking about the Dark Mark.”

Draco inhales sharply. He turns to Harry a little woodenly, his face fearful, and mouths _we should go._ Harry takes a careful step back, and a twig snaps beneath his shoe.

Snape whips around. Karkaroff’s face turns pale and drawn, and he whips out his wand. Harry can see his hand shaking in the moonlight. Snape’s wand glows brighter as he stares straight through Harry. Draco’s hand scrabbles against Harry’s thigh until he finds his hand and grips it, and Harry squeezes it in return.

“Accio Invisibility Cloak,” Snape murmurs silkily.

Harry grips the cloak with his free hand, but it makes no move to answer Snape’s summons, although Draco sucks in a harsh breath from beside him. Harry wonders with dim surprise why the spell worked for him, and decides it must have something to do with ownership, or intent.

Snape looks faintly disappointed. Then he sighs harshly and turns to Karkaroff with a cold look. “I have things to be getting on with. My supply of lacewing flies is growing low, and I have to replenish my stock. If you follow me, Karkaroff, I will not be held accountable for my actions.”

Karkaroff grows even paler still, and makes no move to follow Snape as he stalks away. He grips his forearm tightly, misery written in every line of his face, and then he whirls around and stalks back through the trees, forcing Harry to push Draco up against a warped poplar.

Draco releases a shaky breath, and Harry puts a hand on his face, eyebrows arching.

“I’m fine,” Draco says stiffly. “I just didn’t know that Karkaroff was a Death Eater.”

“A Death Eater,” Harry repeats softly. He knows what they are, has heard other Slytherins talk of them in whispers, usually with a few glances in his direction. It’s a sore spot, one that isn’t brought up often in their little group, and Harry knows that the reason for that comes in the form of a much taller blonde man with a black mark on his forearm. He’s never pressed the issue, not even after Blaise sat Harry down and told him what the downfall of Voldemort was like for his followers, what it meant for them.  

Harry cannot find it in him to be sympathetic, for the most part. But Draco isn’t his father, and he’s never expressed a wish, outwardly, to become one of Voldemort’s followers, should he return. It’s not something that Harry spends a lot of time thinking about, for obvious reasons.

“Your family,” Harry says slowly, watching Draco’s expression go tense. “Do they approve of you being friends with me?”

Draco furrows his brow in surprise. It’s obvious that he was expecting a different line of questioning, one that Harry definitely wants to pursue, but this – this is more important.

“They don’t get mad at you for this, do they?” Harry indicates their joined hands, as though it could possibly encompass their complicated relationship.

“They don’t know that we’re together,” Draco says carefully. “Up until tonight I wasn’t sure that we _were_ together, and we still need to have a conversation, I suppose, but… if you’re asking if they mistreat me for being friends with you, then no. My mother understands, for the most part. She likes you. My father likes to pretend that I did it on purpose, to gain some sort of foothold, or for political gain.”

“And did you?” Harry asks, but he’s grinning. Draco shoves him anyway, although he doesn’t look offended. Exasperated, perhaps, which is something that Harry’s used to.

“Absolutely,” Draco says. “Why else would I be anywhere near you? Your hair is atrocious, you take no pride in your appearance, and you are the most _Gryffindor_ Slytherin to have ever walked these halls.”

“And yet, you’ve only punched me once the whole time I’ve known you, and now you want to kiss me,” Harry says smugly. Draco groans, shoving him again, and then sets a quick pace out of the forest, muttering under his breath about _stupid scarheads_ and needing a drink.

He still lets Harry hold his hand all the way back though.

The Yule Ball is mostly over by the time they sneak back into Hogwarts. They glance through the doors and find that there are only a few students left on the dancefloor, swaying to a slow song. Harry waves at Neville, who grins back widely, and then they both make their way to the dungeons. They’re stumbling down the steps to one of the winding corridors when they find Pansy and Blaise.

“What happened?” Harry asks warily.

Blaise looks up from where he’s lying on the floor, spread-eagled, and his grin makes Harry take a step back.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Pansy says, from where she’s stood over him, hands on her hips. “Finnegan spiked the punch and Blaise drank half of it in a fit of masculinity. Where have you two been?”

“Stalking Death Eaters,” Harry says, making his way towards Blaise.

“Harry!” Blaise says brightly, his head flopping back on the floor. He beams up at Harry. “My beautiful biscuit!”

“I told you to stop calling me that,” Harry mutters. He leans down and grabs Blaise’s hands, pulling him up. “Up you get. Had fun?”

“Not as much as you, apparently,” Blaise hiccups. He blinks very fiercely at him, which Harry assumes was supposed to be a wink. “Draco is wearing your make-up.”

Draco splutters at that, and Pansy abandons Harry in favour of slipping her arm through Draco’s and pestering him for details. It takes a while to steer Blaise towards the portrait door – he keeps bouncing off the walls and throwing his arm around Harry’s neck, singing at the top of his voice.

“Ron and Hermione had a fight?” Harry says, catching the tail end of Pansy’s conversation as Blaise drags him through the portrait.

“It was less like a fight and more like a screaming match on the staircase,” Pansy says thoughtfully. “He accused her of fraternising with the enemy and she called him a number of things that I can’t say around the child.” She nods at Blaise, who puffs himself up in an indignant way before his face falls.

“Do not throw up,” Harry says, holding up his hands. “Just… let’s get you horizontal.”

“Harry, my love, I’ve been waiting to hear you propopo – proposish – _proportion_ me for years.” He gives a proud nod as Harry gently nudges him in the direction of the dormitory. The stairs prove a worthy opponent, but Blaise battles them fiercely until he stumbles through the door and falls flat on his face on the thick carpet. Greg shoots up in bed, thoroughly startled, and Harry gives him a weak look.

“Please help me.”

Greg gives the lump on the floor a dubious look before clambering out of bed with a sigh. Together they haul a mostly unconscious Blaise onto his bed, where he flops dramatically, one hand thrown over his face.

“Thanks,” Harry wheezes. He glances down. “Nice socks.”

Greg wiggles his toes. The snakes on his bright green socks wiggle too. “My mum got them for me for my birthday.”

“Disgusting,” Blaise says. “Who wears socks to bed? Heathen.”

Harry takes the nearest pillow and slaps Blaise over the face with it. Blaise struggles for a moment before going still, and Harry lifts the pillow in alarm.

“Did you smother him?” Greg looks concerned.

“No, he just passed out from the punch,” Harry says.

“You punched him?” Draco waltzes in and glances at Blaise’s slack, drooling face. “Finally, we’ve all wanted to do it. Is it bad that I’m jealous?”

Harry rolls his eyes and sets about propping Blaise up carefully, tipping him on his and summoning a bowl. Pansy sighs and then helps to pull Blaise’s shoes off; Draco stands back and offers sarcastic support from afar. Eventually all three of them collapse on Harry’s bed and watch Blaise drool for a bit.

“Draco told me about Snape and Karkaroff,” Pansy says quietly, hugging one of Harry’s pillows. “We’ll have to tell Granger when we next see her, she probably knows more about it than anyone. And maybe Draco can subtly probe for information. Narcissa will pick up on it, of course – she isn’t stupid, but she’ll pretend to be if she thinks it’s important for Draco to know. You’ll just have to phrase it as though you’re a little worried for your own safety, and she’ll spill everything if it means keeping you safe. And Harry, you should tell your Godfather--”

“Delicious Godfather,” Blaise slurs loudly. He smacks his lips and then rolls over, still asleep.

Pansy lifts an eyebrow, obviously amused. “Delicious Godfather, then. You should tell him and his equally hot werewolf boyfriend about the conversation.”

“Really?” Harry gives her a bleak look. “Lupin too? Is nobody safe?”

“Not from Pansy.” Draco puts his legs over both of them so that his feet are in Harry’s lap, and Harry rests a hand gently on his ankle where his robes have ridden up. Pansy swats his knee irritably but Draco simply wriggles around even more, shooting her a smug grin.

Pansy rolls his eyes. “Besides that, it was completely stupid of you to follow them. And when Blaise finishes throwing up tomorrow he’s going to be so pissed that the both of you just waltzed off into danger when you should have been waltzing on the dancefloor. He’s annoyed that he didn’t get to dance with you, Harry, by the way.”

Harry glances at Draco and feels his cheeks grow warm. Pansy looks between them fondly.

“You’ll just have to make up for it with a dance around the common room or something,” Draco shrugs, and Harry winces. It’s going to be loud and obnoxious and very embarrassing, but he did sneak out of the Ball a little early.

“Balls aren’t really my thing,” Harry says, and then he pauses. Pansy and Draco share a look for a fraction of a second before bursting into laughter, cackling and doubling over and falling all over the bed. Harry watches Draco throw his head back and feels his heart flip over. He’s tired, and worried about Snape, and fearing for the next day when Blaise will inevitably spend seven hours groaning and leaning on all of them and falling asleep in class, but he’s also warm and comfortable and surrounded by friends, watching an attractive boy laugh at something he said.

He falls asleep with a grin on his face, Draco’s feet in his lap and Pansy’s head on his shoulder, to a backdrop of loud, ear-splitting snores from his drunk friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! More chapters soon, for real this time :) Thank you so much!!!


	10. The Second Task

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Second Task.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long! I hope this chapter is good, it's got the second task and a bit of relationship drama and then the next chapter is a lot more plotty, moving the story along. Since this fic doesn't have Mad-Eye Moody in it, I've had to tweak the plot a bit to make things fit, but you don't get into that yet, so! Thank you so much for the response on the last chapter! Hope you like this one :)

“Have you made it any further with that egg yet?” Hermione asks, buttering a piece of toast absently as she stares intently at Harry. Harry aims a slightly panicked glance at Ron, regretting his decision to eat at the Gryffindor table that morning. Ron grimaces in return and offers him the spoon for the scrambled eggs. He doesn’t look at Hermione.

Harry sighs and piles some onto his plate whilst Hermione tuts.

“You’ve only got a few weeks left until the second task,” Hermione says, frowning. “You have been trying, haven’t you? You know this is important, Harry.”

“Obviously, I know it’s important,” Harry says. “I’ve just been a bit busy, that’s all. Besides, all the egg does is scream when you open it.”

“Busy doing what?” Hermione asks shrewdly. Harry averts his gaze, glancing over Hermione’s shoulder at the Slytherin table. Draco glances up, like he can sense Harry’s gaze, and grins at him. Then he hastily covers the grin with an aloof expression which doesn’t fool anyone, least of all Harry, and especially not Blaise, who takes the opportunity to steal Draco’s bacon and then wave madly at Harry from across the room.

He comes back to the conversation to find Hermione staring at him, one eyebrow arched knowingly. Harry shovels scrambled eggs into his mouth.

Ron, who’s been quiet for the most part, busily eating, pipes up with something that startles them both.

“Maybe you should put it under water.”

Harry looks at him blankly. “What?

“Water,” Ron says. “I saw Diggory coming out of the Prefects bathroom the other night. He had the egg in his hand and he looked pretty pleased with himself.”

“And what were you doing near the Prefects bathroom at night?” Hermione asks.

“Well I _am_ a Prefect, Hermione,” Ron says, although he still won’t look at her. They’ve both been tense and awkward since their argument at the Yule Ball, and although Harry got lots of details from Pansy, he still doesn’t _actually_ know what happened. He can guess, though.

Hermione purses her lips and resumes buttering her toast with renewed vigour. Harry winces as the knife rips straight through the bread.

“Thanks, mate,” Harry says. “I’ll try it tonight. Anything’s worth a shot.”

“No pro’lem,” Ron says, spraying crumbs everywhere.

*

Harry drops his head into his hands and groans loudly. He’s sat with Hermione and Blaise in the library, staring down at piles and piles of research and still coming up empty.

“We’ve been at this for hours,” Harry says. “We’re never going to come up with anything, and the Task is tomorrow. What am I supposed to do? I can’t even swim, and I’m supposed to go down to the bottom of the Black Lake?”

“That’s assuming that you’ve thought this through correctly and that you’re even going to have to face the merpeople,” Draco adds, sitting down beside Harry with a book in his hands. All three of them turn to glare at him, and Draco winces imperceptibly. “I support you one hundred percent?”

Harry groans again. “This is so stupid. I’d rather face the dragon again.”

Draco hooks an ankle around Harry’s and hides his face in his book.

“That,” Blaise says, pointing at Harry’s goofy smile, “is unhelpful. Look, let’s approach this practically. We’ve looked at spells, charms and curses that could possibly help. So that’s Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration ruled out, since you don’t have the time to learn how to Transfigure yourself into a fish, nor the ability, not yet. Don’t look at me like that, darling, you know it’s true.”

Harry concedes with a shrug. It’s a fair point; he’s good at Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms, but Transfiguration isn’t his strong point.

“I’ve combed through all of the potions books and there’s next to nothing,” Hermione says, slamming her book shut with a look of annoyance. “You’d think someone would have come up with a potion that would allow you to breathe underwater for an hour, but I can’t find anything on the subject.”

“So, what’s left?” Blaise asks, drumming his fingers against the table. “Draco, couldn’t you ask Professor Snape for help? He might know of a potion that we haven’t found yet.”

Draco glances at Harry for a moment, hesitant, and Harry rolls his eyes. “He’ll know it’s for me, so he won’t help. So that leaves Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy and …what, Divination? Somehow, I don’t think any of those things are going to be much use.”

“You forgot Herbology.”

All four of them turn to find Neville Longbottom hovering nearby, his face pale as though he’s just realizing that he voluntarily inserted himself into a conversation. Harry watches him hunch in on himself, his cheeks growing red, and feels a little bad. He’s always liked Neville, even though they’ve never really had more than a few casual conversations and a shared hatred of potions.

“Sorry,” Neville says. He looks like he’s about to run, but Blaise pins him with a considering look and beckons him closer. Neville moves jerkily, collapsing into the empty seat beside Blaise, and he turns even redder as Blaise practically drapes himself all over him.

“No need to apologise, love,” Blaise purrs. “Would you happen to know of a plant that could get us out of our little predicament?”

“Zabini,” Draco warns. “He’s going to cry.”

Neville scowls briefly, drawing himself up to say, “I’m not. I’m just not used to…” He trails off, glancing briefly at Blaise, and then shakes himself before adding, “Gillyweed can help you breathe underwater. There’s a bit of a debate about whether the effects are as long-term when it comes to fresh water, but it should give you enough time. Hopefully.”

“Perfect,” Blaise says brightly. He leans over and pinches one of Neville’s cheeks, much to Neville’s consternation and Draco’s amusement. There’s a brief moment where Neville seems to be considering saying something, and then he mutters, “Good luck, Harry,” before bolting out of the library.

“I always thought Longbottom had potential,” Blaise says, with a thoughtful look in Neville’s direction. “And he’s certainly grown into those ears of his.”

“Leave Neville alone,” Harry says, although he can’t help but feel a lot lighter than he did a few moments ago. “So, where do we find Gillyweed, then?” 

“Severus will have some in his stock cupboard,” Draco offers. “I can go and get some. He won’t be too pissed if he finds out it was me, whereas if any of you lot do it…”

“Thank you,” Harry says gratefully. Draco smirks at him.

“You do realise that this means you owe me, right?”

“I can think of a way you could repay him,” Blaise purrs, when Harry doesn’t immediately answer, mind filling with things that are probably best left unsaid for the moment. Harry gapes at him, incredulous.

“You don’t have to flirt with him _for_ me.”

“Well obviously I do, since you were sitting there like some gormless moron, your mouth hanging open. What? It was a compliment! Gormless is a good look on you, dear. And anyway, maybe I wasn’t doing it for you, maybe I was doing it for me.” Blaise fans himself with his hand. “Perhaps I wanted to watch.”

It's a joke, but Harry still holds both hands up and makes slicing gestures through the air, as though that might miraculously make Blaise stop talking.

“That’s my cue to leave,” Hermione says, with a faint smile. She stands up and says, “I’ll walk out with you, Malfoy.”

Draco glances over at Harry and then leans over to kiss him lightly, before gathering up his stuff and strolling ahead of Hermione, who rushes over to give Harry a quick hug before she leaves, with a murmur of good luck. Blaise and Harry take one look at the pile of books and mess of papers littering their table and sigh simultaneously.

*

Draco grips the iron bar fiercely, his knuckles white and his fingers frozen. Pansy bounces up and down on the balls of her feet beside him, arms wrapped tight around herself as she shivers and mutters angrily about how _fucking freezing_ it is. They’re on the first level of an enormous towering structure balanced far out on the Black Lake, and the wind whips through the bars with all the snarling ferocity of a dragon. It’s only been five minutes since they clambered out of the little boats, and Draco already can’t feel his face. His lips are chapped and his toes are aching inside his dragon-hide boots, and the expensive scarf around his neck is doing absolutely nothing for him.

He glances over the top of Pansy’s head – which isn’t hard, because Pansy is roughly the size of a pixie, although amusingly, she’s not that much smaller than Harry – and spots Harry. He’s standing with the other champions, facing the lake, a rigid line of green and black.

“He must be freezing his bollocks off,” Draco mutters. “Who thought of this ridiculous challenge anyway? Who thought ‘oh, I know, let’s send four teenagers to the bottom of an icy lake in the middle of January, that’s a brilliant idea,’ hmm? Who thought of that?”

“The wise and all-knowing Dumbledore?” Pansy suggests sarcastically. She shivers violently and then bats Draco’s arms out of the way, burrowing under Draco’s cloak. Draco makes a wounded sound and grasps for the edges of his cloak, but Pansy is insistent and surprisingly strong, so she ends up tucked under his chin anyway.

“You’re letting all of the cold air in,” Draco grumbles, but he doesn’t push her away. He’s not about to mention it, but he could do with some comfort today. He’s about to watch Harry plunge to the bottom of the Lake and then stare at the surface for an hour, waiting to see if he’s drowned in a pile of weeds. He peers over the top of everyone’s heads again and feels a surge of jealously as he watches Diggory lean in and mutter something in Harry’s ear.

“There’s no need to get that close,” Draco says under his breath. Pansy snorts, going up on tip-toes, her hair tickling the underside of Draco’s chin as she tries to see what’s got Draco so annoyed.

“Oh, that,” Pansy says dismissively. “Don’t worry so much, Draco. Not everybody is out to sleep with Harry Potter. Just because you’re so obsessed with him doesn’t mean that everyone else is. Besides, Diggory has a very pretty girlfriend, and although Harry admires him, definitely, that admiration is nothing compared to what he feels for you. So stop being so stupid, for once in your life, and pet my hair.”

Draco splutters for a moment, and then rudely shoves Pansy back out into the freezing cold air. She squawks indignantly, and a brief fight occurs before they’re interrupted by Ron, who’s dragging a reluctant, terrified Neville along behind him. Ron offers them a grunt in greeting, and Draco rolls his eyes.

“Most people use actual words when they greet each other, Weasley,” Draco says.

“Look, can we just wait with you?” Ron asks uncomfortably. “Hermione’s missing and I’m fed up of watching Seamus and Dean stick their hands all over each other when they think we aren’t looking. Right, Neville?”

Neville looks somewhat apologetic as he says, “I’m pretty sure Seamus knew we were looking.”

“This was probably his plan all along,” Pansy says approvingly. “Of course you can wait with us. Just because Harry’s not here doesn’t mean we can’t all get along.”

There’s a slightly strained silence.

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Where did you say Granger was?”

“I don’t know,” Ron says, frowning. “She was supposed to come back to the Common Room after studying with you lot last night, but she never made it back. I just assumed she’d snuck in when I wasn’t looking, but she wasn’t at breakfast either, and I can’t find her in the crowd.”

“I walked her back as far as the seventh floor, and then we ran into McGonagall, who asked to speak to her for a moment,” Draco says. “I just assumed it was about schoolwork. It’s not like I could have stayed anyway.”

Truthfully, he hadn’t been that concerned about Hermione. She’s nice enough, and Draco liked her about as much as he could stand Ron, which was enough, as far as he was concerned. They were never going to be the best of friends, all of them, but they could still talk and joke and study together. The trouble was, it was often Harry that brought them together. It was Harry that had bridged the gap between them all during their first year, and the number of fights they had gone through and mysteries they had solved together had only cemented their friendship, but there was still an animosity there, at times, especially when Harry was absent.

Hermione was good at ignoring it, and Ron was good at bulldozering over the awkwardness, and Draco carefully side-stepped it, but the issue of blood purity still niggled at them all. Draco was always very careful not to mention the Weasleys’ in his letters to home, and he had never once mentioned Hermione. His parents were only just getting used to the idea of Harry Potter being a permanent fixture in their sons’ life, and that was after years of being friends with him, and without knowing that they were actually _together_ now.

“It’s weird,” Pansy is saying, when Draco tunes back in. “I haven’t seen Blaise since last night either. Harry said he hung back in the library to flirt with some Ravenclaw boy, and I stayed up doing my essay, but I didn’t see him come in.”

She looks at Draco, who frowns, thinking back. A small wisp of dread curls in his stomach.

“He wasn’t at breakfast either,” Draco confirms. “I would remember. He’s not exactly easy to miss, is he?”

They stare at each other for a moment, confused and wondering, and then Neville says quietly, “It’s starting.”

There’s a bang like a firework as the canon explodes, and they all wheel around to watch as Harry fumbles with the gilyweed for a moment before falling face-first into the lake with a slap that makes a few surrounding people laugh. Draco winces and leans forward over the railing to watch the space where Harry disappeared. He can see a shape flailing around just beneath the surface of the water. He hears Neville suck in a breath behind him, lurching forward to lean over the railing as well and both of them stare in horror until Harry suddenly surges out of the water, flipping through the air with a shout of triumph before disappearing into the blackness below.

There’s an outcry of laughter and shrieks, and then the crowd grows quiet again.

“Show-off,” Draco breathes, but he’s relieved. Neville sags against the railing with a muffled groan of relief, crushing the strange plant that he’s holding in his hands.

“You’re very lucky that didn’t kill him, Longbottom,” Pansy says in a clipped tone, white-faced. Neville garbles something incoherently, and Ron pulls him away with a clap to the shoulder, kindly telling him to get a grip.

There’s nothing to do after that but wait.

The seconds tick by slowly. Neville pulls out a book on plants and settles down to read, with Ron leaning in to make rude annotations on some of the words. Neville bares it with good grace. Pansy leans against Draco and practices her wand movements, and Draco watches the Lake, barely blinking.

“Not the most scintillating of tasks, is it?” Theo remarks, from further away, in his usual slow drawl. Draco can’t help but agree; he wishes it were over, but less because he’s bored and more because he wants to yank Harry out of the water and secure him away in the Common Room, where it’s warm and dry and safe.

“Where the fuck is Blaise?” Pansy mutters. “He shouldn’t be missing this. He _wouldn’t_ miss this.”

Fleur is the first to appear, only minutes in, having succumbed to Grindylows. There’s a blur of noise and movement as the teachers rush to get to her, and Madam Pomfrey storms past with blankets, muttering under her breath. Fleur is crying silently, tears rolling down her face, which is set sternly. She looks disappointed in herself as she clutches her leg, despite the soothing words from Madam Maxine and her friends, who gather around her. It’s admirable, that kind of poise, and Draco would be impressed if he weren’t busy staring hard at the Lake, waiting.

He's always been a patient person, inside, but this is testing him to the limits.

Diggory appears next, with Cho Chang in his arms. He looks particularly heroic, with his hair plastered to his face, and Draco grumbles to himself.

“I didn’t think they’d be using people,” Pansy says, looking scandalised. “I mean, obviously it’s safe, but that still seems unnecessary.”

The implications of this stir in Draco’s mind, but he pushes them back. He tells himself he doesn’t care who Harry has to go and find, just as long as he makes it out safely.

“Come on, Harry,” Ron mutters. “Third isn’t too bad. Just don’t let Krum beat you, Merlin.”

Krum does beat him. He pops up out of the water a few minutes later, with Hermione in his arms. Ron goes white, and then red, and then green, and then he turns on his heel and storms into the crowd, disappearing. Neville looks at them for a moment and then goes red, squeaking something before disappearing too. Pansy tucks herself closer to Draco and sighs.

“You know who’s going to be down there with him, don’t you?”

“We aren’t talking about it,” Draco says firmly.

“Draco, it doesn’t necessarily _mean_ anything.”

“ _Pansy_.”

“Fine.” Her face softens. “But I’m just saying, that no matter what, you can’t doubt him. It doesn’t mean anything.”

It does mean something, though. When Harry and Blaise shoot up out of the water, coughing and spluttering, it _means_ something. Blaise immediately starts screeching, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck and almost drowning them both. Draco almost doesn’t notice Fleur’s little sister bobbing along beside them, because he’s too busy staring at the picture Harry and Blaise make. It means something.

_We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss._

Draco hangs back as Hermione and Pansy both pounce on Harr, wrapping him in blankets and babbling in his face. He looks rather dazed, but he manages to meet Draco’s eyes and smile. Draco smiles back weakly, and then looks away. He wants to hug him, be the one wrapping him in blankets, but it doesn’t feel right, not with Blaise there too.

_We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss._

*

The following day, the front page is plastered with pictures of Harry and Blaise clutching each other in the water. There’s another picture shoved in the right-hand corner of the page, of Harry kissing Draco Malfoy. Rita Skeeter smirks stickily up at her audience from the paper, her glasses flashing and her quill poised on top of her shoulder.

Draco isn’t at breakfast.

*

"Blaise?"

Blaise blinks at the wall, jerks around slightly as he registers his own name being called softly. It's dark, but when he turns around he sees Harry, silhouetted by the faint light coming in through the green-tinted windows. He's standing, barefoot, beside Blaise's bed, tugging on the hem of his shirt and rubbing at one eye sleepily. Blaise blinks away sleep and hums questioningly.

"I'm borrowing your bed," Harry announces, and then he crawls in beside Blaise and collapses on the bed, yanking on the quilt until it comes up to his chin. Then he turns on his side so that he's facing Blaise and inches closer slightly, hunching in on himself, hot breath curling across Blaise's bare shoulder.

Blaise frowns at the lump under the covers, tugs on one of Harry's curls. They’ve never done this before. Something's wrong, but he doesn't know what, and it unsettles him. He knows this boy like the back of his hand, but for some reason he can't put his finger on what's bothering him lately.

"Hand me my wand?" Blaise asks quietly, his voice hoarse with sleep, and Harry grumbles but acquiesces, fumbling around in the dark until he finds it and pushes it into Blaise's waiting hands. It's a beech wand, 12 and 3/4 inches long, imbued with unicorn hair and very bendy, which had made him smirk when he heard it. He had been a bit pissed at first that it wasn't something a bit more elegant, like oak, but he loves it now.

He casts a spell, and three balls of light float up and hover above their heads. Harry seems to relax at the sight of them.

"Who's your best friend?" Blaise inquires, chucking his wand near the end of his bed. It lands near his feet, which almost poke over the side of the bed, and he kicks the wand carefully off the edge and onto his trunk, where it will be safe.

"Greg," Harry says, voice muffled by the pillow. "He doesn't ask me stupid questions."

Blaise pokes him in the ear and Harry kicks him in the shin in retaliation.

"Fine," Harry says, when Blaise repeatedly tugs on his hair. " _You're_ my best friend. You're also irritating."

"I think you meant 'irresistible'," Blaise corrects him, and Harry snorts. 

They stay curled up for a bit, quiet, and then Blaise asks, "Nightmare?"

"No," Harry says defensively, and then he stops and shrugs. "Well, yeah, a bit. The usual, really, only this time it involved you."

"Me?" Blaise is surprised. Harry's nightmares are never cheerful, obviously, and they usually revolve around green light and a high-pitched scream, or the chill and sucking emptiness that Dementors bring, or even the pain in his arm from the basilisk fang. He never dreams about Blaise, or at least, not to Blaise's knowledge.

"You were drowning," Harry murmurs. "I didn't get to you in time."

Blaise's heart tightens.

"I'm a good swimmer," Blaise says, because he doesn't know what to say. Then he stops and frowns, because he's made a promise to himself over the years, to not be one of the many people in Harry's life that lies to him, even if it is for his own good. "Actually, I'm a terrible swimmer, and I'd probably have drowned in that lake within a minute if it weren't for all the spells, but that's not the point. The point is, there was nothing riding on that rescue, I was completely safe, and despite all of that, you did save me."

Harry removes his head from the pillow, props himself up on his elbows and glares down at Blaise, and Blaise takes advantage of the position to grab Harry's chin and look at him fiercely.

"The point, Harry Potter, is that it's not your job to save everyone."

Harry rolls his eyes and tugs his head out of Blaise's grip, blushing a little.

"I know that," he mutters. "That doesn't mean I want to dream about it."

Blaise snorts. "I should hope not. That's a kink that I just can't condone, love."

"Oh, so you do have limits then? Quick, alert the press."

Blaise snorts again. "I think Rita Skeeters done enough damage, actually."

Harry's silence says far more than his words ever would.

"So that's what this is about?"

"I told you. I had a nightmare."

"Harry, I may not be Hermione Granger, but I am not stupid." Blaise shakes his head. "You've had nightmares before, darling, far more than anyone should ever have to put up with, and yet you've never willingly crawled into my bed before. And doesn't that sound depressing, now that I think about it."

Harry shoves him lightly under the covers, and then draws back suddenly, brows furrowed visibly, even in the darkness.

_"Are you naked?"_

"How forward," Blaise says delightedly, and Harry shoves him again. "Alas, I am clothed from the waist down. I'd say that it's a shame to cover up the best part of me, but honestly, it's a toss-up. Have you seen this face?"

"Never in my life," Harry says drily. "Is that what I'm supposed to look at? I always thought you wanted people to stare at your earring, judging by how bright it is."

Blaise raises a hand protectively to his ear, where the shining diamond stud gleams happily.

"Stop insulting my taste and start spilling your sorrows already."

Harry pats him on the chest pityingly, and then sighs gustily in his ear.

"I think I've ruined everything."

"So dramatic," Blaise says, rolling his eyes. "If you're talking about that little article and about the fact that I was in the lake, rather than a certain blonde who shall remain nameless, and how our dear resident dragon reacted, then you can stop worrying. I already talked to Draco."

Harry's eyes go wide.

_"What?"_

"I talked to Draco," Blaise says patiently. "I let him yell and throw a few curses around, and then when he finally finished having a temper tantrum, I told him the truth."

"Which is what?" Harry asks warily.

"That he needs to get his head out of his arse," Blaise says succinctly.

"Blaise, tell me what you said."

Blaise moves to sit up, and Harry follows him, sheets pooling around their waists.

"Why don't _you_ tell _me_?" Blaise says kindly.

Harry hesitates, at first, picking at the covers, and then he sighs and rubs at his eyes. They're so big and green and worried, startling even without his glasses.

"You're my best mate," Harry says quietly. "You'll always be important to me, and that's why you were in the lake and he wasn't."

"Not because he's _not_ important," Blaise continues, "but because, aside from your owl, I was your first friend. All that shit that Dumbledore's been feeding you for years about love is true, for once, and it applies here."

Harry shifts a little, as though he’s uncomfortable. He mutters something, and the only word Blaise catches is, “Family.”

Blaise's heart tightens even further, and there's this feeling in his stomach, and it's like flying a broom for the first time, that rush of elation and giddy happiness. This is what he was looking for, when he came to Hogwarts.

"Exactly," Blaise says softly. "We're family. You and Draco, on the other hand, have a different kind of love. You also have a very different kind of chemistry. The kind that tends to explode, if I'm honest."

Harry smiles a little sheepishly. "It was a pretty intense first kiss."

Blaise waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Harry shakes his head, fond. The word _family_ is still doing loops in Blaise's brain, and no matter how hard he tries to focus on Harry, he can't stop thinking about it.

"Did you ever think you'd find your family in Slytherin, of all places?"

Harry looks at him sharply. "It's not about which House I'm in. The Hat gave me a choice, you know, and I think it would have listened no matter which House I wanted to go in. But that's not the point. I found family everywhere, really."

"You're not proud of being in Slytherin?" Blaise asks.

"Of course I am," Harry says, grinning. "I'm just proud of what I've done and who I've met, more."

"Look at you, all grown up," Blaise says, pretending to wipe away a tear. "It's just precious."

Harry snorts and flops down against the pillow. "Do you think Draco's still mad at me?"

“Does he seem mad?”

“He hasn’t really said anything. I thought he’d get pissed off when you were in the lake, but he didn’t even say anything. He just got kind of distant and quiet. It’s _weird_. I’m used to him shouting and yelling and throwing curses. That’s what we both usually do. I don’t know how to deal with this. Do you think he’s still mad?”

"Why don't you ask him?" Blaise suggests. "He's in his bed, isn't he?"

"He put a sticking charm on the curtains and I think there’s a silencing charm around him. I don't think he can hear me, and if he can, he isn't answering."

Blaise winces, and then decides that there’s only one way to work out whether Draco really can hear them or not. "Well that’s not promising, but maybe he's just having a really long wank."

There's a noise of scandalised protest from across the room, and Blaise winks at Harry, who suddenly looks ten times as terrified as he did when he was facing an _actual_ fucking dragon. Blaise rolls his eyes and shoves Harry gently until the boy grumbles and clambers out of bed, nervously fiddling with his sleeve.

"If he's still being an arse, you can come and climb back in here," Blaise says, winking. "I'll keep you nice and warm."

There's a sound that largely resembles a growl from Draco's bed, and Harry stumbles to a stop as one of the curtains whips open. A very pale hand darts out from the curtains and grabs a fistful of Harry's pyjamas, yanking him harshly into the bed. The curtains close swiftly, there's a furious whisper, and then the sounds of several spells sweeping into place. Blaise rolls his eyes and tucks himself back into bed, suddenly tired again. He can get all of the details tomorrow, after all, and besides... He thinks it's Draco's turn for a little attention.

*

Draco is not being an arse, no matter what Blaise thinks. He grinds his teeth together as he yanks Harry in through his curtains and into the bed, where he lands with a soft oomph, head bouncing on the pillow. Draco leans over him to pull the curtains closed, ignoring Harry’s whispered question ( _Draco what the fuck are you doing that hurt my chest you absolute wanker_ ) in favour of sharply swiping his hand through the air. Several quietening charms and a Muffliato spell slide into place, and Draco makes a mental note to thank his Godfather again for teaching him the invaluable spell.

“Malfoy?”

Draco makes the mistake of looking down. It’s one thing to imagine having Harry Potter in your bed for a good few years, and quite another to actually see him there, in the dark, lying on top of your covers in a deliciously rumpled fashion, staring up at you. Well, squinting up at him, Draco amends, which just makes him maddeningly more adorable.

Draco wrinkles his nose at his own thoughts. _Adorable_. Potter isn’t adorable. He’s irritating and maddening and quite possibly insane sometimes, and stupidly loyal and fierce and – and Draco is mad at him. Or he’s _supposed_ to be mad at him. Draco takes a very deep breath.

“Potter.”

“Are we back to last names, then?”

“I believe you started it.”

Harry winces. “You didn’t look like you wanted me to call you Draco.”

Draco sighs huffily and lies back down on his bed. It’s quite a small bed, as all of them are, and so there are mere inches of space between him and Harry, whose breath grows a little more shallow as Draco roots around in an attempt to get more comfortable.

“Call me whatever you want, Potter,” he mutters. “That’s not really the problem, is it?”

“So you’re still pissed at me?”

“I’m not pissed at you – I just –” Draco’s mouth works for a moment, and then he gives in and rolls harshly on his side, facing the wall with his back to Harry. “Never mind. Forget it, it doesn’t matter.”

He feels a hesitant touch on his shoulder, fingertips just barely grazing the cotton of his t-shirt. And then the hesitance fades away and Harry yanks Draco around until he’s practically on top of him, and Draco yelps, only to be silenced by the fierce look in Harry’s eyes.

“Blaise said he talked to you,” Harry says.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Of course, _Blaise_ said –”

“I’m not going to argue about Blaise with you,” Harry says, voice irritatingly calm despite the fire in his eyes. “He’s my best friend, but I don’t like him the way I like you. I’ve never even thought about it. It would be weird.”

Draco arches an eyebrow. “Really? You’ve never even _thought_ about it?”

Harry sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t think about guys at all until you kissed me.”

Draco stares at him blankly for a moment before a delighted grin spreads across his face. Harry squints up at him and groans, makes to roll away.

“No,” Draco says, grabbing hold of him. “Do tell me more about how I awakened all sorts of feelings in you.”

“You’re going to be smug about this forever, aren’t you?”

“Naturally,” Draco quips. He’s quite serious.

Harry smiles at him for a moment before his expression grows solemn. Draco suddenly doesn’t want to hear a word of what Harry has to say.

“Are you angry with me? Genuinely?”

“I’m not angry,” Draco says quietly. He rolls his eyes and lies flat on his back, staring up at his bed curtains. If they’re going to talk about _feelings_ , then Draco wants something neutral to look at.

“Upset?”

“No.”

“Annoyed?”

“With you? Always.”

“Here’s what I think,” Harry says. Draco groans. “I’m being serious. I think that it could have been any of you in the water. I think you all mean a lot to me… Merlin, this is awkward. You all mean a lot to me, and I think that if the situations were reversed, then the adults would have chosen Pansy for you to rescue. It’s not about who means more.”

“If the situations were reversed,” Draco says. “And Pansy was in the water, how would you feel?”

“Angry. Upset. Annoyed.”

Draco snorts. “Alright, Potter, you’ve made your point. Maybe I _was_ upset, but I talked to Blaise, and he said a lot of things that made sense. And now I’ve talked to you, and surprisingly you’ve made sense too, so I suppose everything’s alright again, isn’t it?”

Harry elbows him lightly. “It doesn’t have to be alright if you’re still upset. We can talk some more.”

“Merlin, no.” Draco pulls a face. “I believe you, if you say you don’t like Blaise.”

“Well, I like Blaise, but I don’t _like_ –”

“Potter, shut up and go to sleep.”

“Oh. Here?”

“Do you have somewhere else you have to be?”

Draco misses the way Harry smiles because he’s too busy mashing his face into his shoulder and curling up against him. Harry wraps an arm around his shoulder and grins into his hair.

“No, definitely not. Nowhere I’d rather be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was that? Thank you so much for reading! Come say hello @thealmostrhetoricalquestion on tumblr if you like :) Please leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed this, and have a great night!

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS OFFICIALLY ON HIATUS. 
> 
> Sorry guys, but I've run out of inspiration. I know the story isn't complete but I'm going to mark it as finished for now, because I genuinely don't think I can come back to this. If you guys have any ideas on how to progress the story then I'd be really grateful to hear them as I don't like leaving stories unfinished. You can leave me a comment or come and get in touch @thealmostrhetoricalquestion on tumblr. Thank you so much for all of your support, I really appreciate it, and I'm super sorry about this. Thank you!


End file.
